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Charles V.De Vet
Grant Carrington
VliilUani Etemgle
Jacl^. Haldeman il
^.Bertram Chandler

Marion Zinimer Bradley

^ke (Collector'' 6

reasure

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Maga7;jne of Fantasy

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This issue includes:

★ Phil Nowlan’s “Armageddon — 2419” —
(the origin of buck Rogers) reprinted from
Amazing Stories, August 1928!

★ Pictorial review of the 1939 movie serial
adaptation of buck Rogers!

★ Illustrated history of buck Rogers in the
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★ Full-color BUCK ROGERS comics section
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WORLDS FIRST SCIENCE FICTION MAGAZINE

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November, 1978

Vol. 52, No. 1

neW novelets

WHILE THE NORTH WIND BLOWS

by CHRISTOPHER ANVIL 6

DOGGY IN THE WINDOW

by A. BERTRAM CHANDLER 30

EXIGENCY & MARTIN HEIDEGGER
by JAMES SALLIS 50

new short stories
DUEL

by CHARLES V. DE VET 20

GREEN THUMB

by MARION ZIMMER BRADLEY 71

A HIGH NEGATIVE CORRELATION

by VOL HALDEMAN 73

THE MAN WHO WASN’T THERE

by WILLIAM F. TEMPLE 76

WHAT ARE FRIEND FOR?

by EILEEN GUNN 82

WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WHEN YOU
SEE YOUR LADY STROLLING ON THE DECK
OF THE STARSHIP

by GRANT CARRINGTON 88

THE SOLUTION

by STEVE MILLER 97

r^Qi iTr^w

by ROBERT F. YOUNG 102

PONCE

by GLEN COOK 116

LAST ROCKET FROM NEWARK
by JACK C. HALDEMAN, jr 126

new features

EDITORIAL by TED WHITE 4

OR SO YOU SAY 109

SOL COHEN, Publisher
ARTHUR BERNHARD, Associate Publisher
TED WHITE, Editor

GRANT CARRINGTON, Associate Editor, Emeritus
TERRY HUGHES, Assistant Editor
J. EDWARDS, Art Director

PRINT ADVERTISING REP., INC. Advertising Manager

Sci-fi and the Death of science
FICTION: If you live in a large met-
ropolitan area, as I do, and you watch
much late-night television you’ve
probably seen the commerciaJs for
Starlog, the sci-fi fan magazine. (I use
the phrase “fan magazine ’ here in the
same sense it’s been used for years to
describe Hollywood fan magazines,
not in the sense of “fanzines,”
magazines put out by stf fans.) They
are long commercials, running up to
two minutes, and use Robbie The
Robot (first manufactured for the fif-
ties Forbidden Planet) as the an-
nouncer. A few famous names —
Heinlein, Clarke, et al — ^are dropped
here and there and there’s a line
which invariably grates on my ears:
“And, oh, those cra-a-a-zy conven-
tions!”

This isn’t the first time something
smacking of science fiction has been
sold on tv — in the early fifties Hugo
Gemsback bought tv time to publicize
his brief-lived Science-Fiction Plus,
and I think Analog has also ex-
perimented with television promo-
tion, usually in conjunction with a stf
series.

But Starlog is being sold the same
way that all those records advertised
on tv are: the actual commercial re-
fers prospective purchasers to a box
number rented by the television sta-
tion, and the commercial is paid for
by a percentage of the responses it
draws.

This was inevitable, and I only re-
gret that it wasn’t us who did it

first — not that we have the resources
to produce a tv commercial, sadly — I
have no beef with Starlog there.

What does concern me is that Star-
log and its visibility on television are
symptomatic of the commercial suc-
cess of “sci-fi.”

I don’t want to digress here about
the ugliness of the phrase, “sci-fi”,
nor the disgust which most people in
science fiction feel when they hear
that phrase. Rather, as I’ve said here
recently, “sci-fi” epitomizes to me the
dichotomy between science fiction as
it really is and the popular image of
science fiction as held by the masses
and the mass media.

The image is winning over the sub-
stance.

Some years ago Gardner Dozois
predicted (in a convention speech
which we published in the
November, 1973 issue of our compan-
ion magazine. Fantastic, as
“Mainstream SF & Sf”) that science
fiction would split into two streams, a
“mainstream” stf which achieved
best-seller status, and a “genre” stf
which continued to develop the tradi-
tions of the past fifty-odd years.
“Genre” stf, he said, would remain a
somewhat esoteric field with a more
limited appeal; “mainstream” stf, on
the other hand, would enjoy
culture-wide jiopularity. He was abso-
lutely right.

The only thing Gardner overlooked
was that the ‘ mainstream” branch
might even leave behind the printed
word. He overlooked, in other words,
(cont. on page 1 14

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WHILE THE NORTH WIND

BLOWS

CHRISTOPHER ANVIL

Between the Flits and the Slags a guy could be kept hopping!

Dave Hunsacker, the early-
morning air cold on his fece, looked
down from above on the dark tops of
the big trees he was used to seeing
from below. Not since the coloniza-
tion ship had first brought the col-
onists to the planet had Dave enjoyed
this particular view, and in fact, he
was not enjoying it very much right
now. Leaning out the open viewport
as the spape yacht slowly descended,
he intently scanned the sea of
shadowy treetops, where stray wisps
of fog trailed up, and a little of the
winter’s snow still lay on the branches.
Suddenly, near the top of a towering
fern tree, a bright yellow glow ap-
peared.

Dave cleared his throat.

“The pests are awake. There’s the
first blast.”

He noted the location of the tree,
near a large oblong clearing where
the snow still lay in heaps.

In the forest just to the east of the
clearing, a dozen more bright dots
sprang to lifel

He said urgently, “There’s more of
them! Better lift!”

The space yacht slowed its descent,
paused, hovered —

Down below, the first glow blos-
somed into a climbing foot-thick pillar
of fire that lit the surrounding

treetops like the rising sun, and was
reflected brightly on the snow of the
nearby clearing.

The yacht continued to hover.

Dave pulled himself inside, and
glanced around.

At the yacht’s controls, Jim Field-
ing, the sweat running down his face,
was using both hands to heave up-
ward on the chrome-plated control-
stick.

“Something’s wrong,” said Fielding.
“I tried for maximum lift and got
nothing.”

“Let go, and try it again. If we
don’t get out of here fast, we’re going
to get cooked in flaming pitch.”

Fielding let go of the control stick,
and lifted gently.

Dave looked back out the viewport.

Now the other dots of light had
lengthened into climbing lines of
flame.

A mechanical voice spoke in sooth-
ing tones from a grille over the con-
trol board.

“This is your Stand-By Pilot
speaking. ”

Dave, at the viewport, noted the
sharply defined edges of the climbing
streams of fire. Within the bright
glow, shadows seemed to whirl and
spin, appear and vanish. Like curving
fingers, the dazzling streams were be-

lllustrated by STEVE FABIAN

AMAZING

WHILE THE NORTH WIND BLOWS

ginning to tilt toward’' the hovering
yacht.

He slammed shut the viewjwrt.

The mechanical voice was saying,

“ . . detect no near physical obstacle
below, and no approach of other
spacecraft which would justify ex-
treme acceleration. Your Helth-Gard
System is countermanding, for your
protection and the comfort of your
guests, an overly extreme control-
signal. Always be sure that you use
your Convenience Control with care,
and that small children do not obtain
access to . . .”

With a feeling of unreality, Dave
watched the bright curving fingertips
dip toward him. Dovim below, fresh
dots of light were blossoming into
climbing streams of fire. He kept his
voife level.

“Be gentle, and try to lift again!”

Fielding very cautiously lifted up
on the shiny chrome stick.

The yacht began to climb.

Dave tensely watched the arcs of
flame converge.

Fielding said, “Will we make itP”

“Not at this rate!”

Fielding with desperate caution
lifted the stick further.

The yacht was rising with increas-
ing speed, but the streams of flame
were coming faster.

Dave stood frozen, willing the
yacht to climb faster. Already he
seemed to feel the heat of the flame
on his face.

The yacht abruptly stopped rising,
and again hovered.

“This is your Stand-By Pilot speak-
ing. Advanced instruments detect no
physical obstacle below, and no ap-
proach of other spacecraft which — ”

A bell went off with a clang that
vibrated the whole ship. The deck
leaped underfoot like an express
elevator hit from below by a giant’s

sledgehammer. There was a roar and
a scream of tortured metal, a sense of
unbearable pressure, and the world
went black.

CAME TO to the sound of- occa-
sional spaced hammer-like blows, and
a new and different mechanical voice :

“. . . your Emergency Safewatch
Monitor Systems. We regret the
momentary inconvenience of Interlock
Maxiboost Acceleration, which was
necessary to prevent severe equip-
ment and personnel damage due
to . . .” There was a pause, then the
voice concluded “. . . excessive heat.”

Dave Hunsacker, flat on the deck,
opened his eyes to see Jim Fielding
pull himself to a sitting position, then
stagger to his feet to look at the shin-
ing chromium-plated stick, and then
at the grille over the control panel.

Dave became aware of a severe
headache, and of a need for profanity
that no profanity he could think of
would fill. The day before, the loud
and boisterous people who had
brought this yacht to the planet had
set down near a place locally known
as “Packbear Flats,” and had rudely
interrupted the end of the bears’
winter sleep. When the bears finished
relieving their irritation, Hunsacker
and his settlement had inherited the
yacht, and also, due to the earlier
landing of a different yacht, they
found themselves the delighted hosts
for a number of attractive young wom-
en. The girls had been led to land
because of the look of the spring sun
on the winter snow, and the men in
the other yacht had been attracted by
the presence there of the girls’ yacht.
It seemed reasonable to Dave and his
friends that two yachts, sitting up-
right in the open sunlight, and
pulse-reflection-coated arOund their
spire-like snouts, might attract any

AMAZING

number of unwanted guests. The ob-
vious thing to do was to get the
yachts out of sight. And the obvious
place to put them was under the trees
near the clearing, where Dave and
Jim Fielding had just tried to go.

Fielding let his breath out with a
hiss.

“Well, the slags are sure through
hibernating, just like the rest of the
pests. But we’ve still got to get these
things out of sight, somehow. Now
what do we do r ’

Dave got carefully to his feet.

"The obvious place is still the
same.”

“Under the big steelwood trees,
just back from the edge of the clear-
ingr’

“Right. The trees are big, well-
spaced, clear of limbs for most of
their height, and then the branches
interlace thickly overhead. Also,
they’re close to the settlement. The
spot is ideal.”

“How do we get past the slags 7’

Dave opened the viewport and
peered down, where a single in-
tensely bright line was still climbing
up from the dark forest.

Fielding looked out beside him,
watching as the bright line seemed to
waver, and suddenly vanished. Field-
ing said exasperatedly, “Can you tell
me how a thing like a giant caterpillar
can generate, much less aim, a stream
of flame r ’

Dave shook his head. He said drily,
“However, they can.”

Fielding nodded. “That time Abe
and I decided there were getting to
be too many of the things, and we
tried to cut down a fern tree to get
one of them — you remember that r ’

Hunsacker grinned. “I remember
it.”

‘That son-of-a-gun took a shot at
me from his hole ei^ty feet up, and

the flaming pitch was right behind me
for a hundred yards. It was like trying
to sneak off with their prey. The thing
could have cooked me alive anytime,
but it just didn’t choose to do it. They
only grill flying creatures.”

“Unfortunately,” said Dave, “as far
as the slags are concerned, that now
includes us. I wonder if there’s any
way we could come in from out of
their range, near ground level, so
they’d class us as ground animals.”

Fielding thought a moment, then
shook his head.

‘The trees are too thick. It would
take us forever to chop a way
through.”

From the grille over the control
panel came a polite mechanical voice :

“This is your RoBoButler Service.
A Type-3 light gravitor vessel of the
“skimmer” class is again circling the
ship, apparently endeavoring to gain
your attention.”

Dave glanced out the viewport, but
saw nothing.

From somewhere came a hammer-
ing noise, as if someone reached out
and pounded hard on the hull.

Fielding snapped on the com-
municator.

“Who’s there r ’

There was no reply, and he tried
again, using the outside loudspeaker.

Dave glanced back out the view-
port.

Around from his left, twelve-foot
leathery wings stiffly outspread, kite-
like tail slightly arched, and the big-
beaked head on its long neck tilted to
regard the yacht, came another of the
planet’s prime pests. As he watched,
it moved its wings briefly with a
flick-flick-flick sound, spun its tail and
head, and reversed its course. It dis-
appeared climbing to the left, and
Hunsacker sucked in his breath and
slammed shut the viewport.

WHILE THE NORTH WIND BLOWS

“Now what r ’ said Fielding.

“We’ve had slags. Now we’ve got
flits. ”

The creature suddenly reappeared
in the viewport, circIing^ back from
the right. Its beak (lashod out on its
long neck, and banged against the
viewport. Then for an instant its head
was pressed against the transparent
surface, the big eye peering in in-
tently. Then it was gone.

The two men stood frozen, and it
went through Dave’s mind that one
twist of that curved beak could rip out
a man’s throat, or strip his flesh from
the thigh to the knee. Of course, the
flits, for some reason, prepared to
first soften up their prey by dropping
it a hundred feet or so onto bare rock.

Hunsacker let his breath out
slowly. Fielding cleared his throat.

“They don’t come much closer than
that, old buddy. If the port had been
open, that thing could have run its
extension-tongs neck in here and
snaked one or the other of us right
out for the long dive.”

From the direction of the control
panel there came again the polite
mechanical voice :

“This is your RoBoButler Service.
We repeat that a Type-3 light
gravitor-vessel of the skimmer class is
circling the ship, attempting to gain
your attention.”

“It’s gained it,” said Fielding, look-
ing over the control panel. “I’d like to
know the I.Q. of the computer that
runs this luxury pot.”

“Somewhere in the high teens or
low twenties,” said Dave, looking
around and fixing in his mind, in case
a quick retreat should be in order,
the location of the shaft down to the
next level. “It seems to me we ought
to have some kind of a reply for that
bird, before it tries again, knocks the
port off its hinges, and climbs in.”

“I’m looking for something sharp on
this panel . . . Here, this looks prom-
ising.” Fielding threw a switch, and a
recorded voice boomed outside :

“Your attentioH, please. This vessel
is fully protected by appropriate de-
vices of the Advanced Synodic Prod-
ucts Corporation. It will retaliate au-
tomatically against any aggressive or
hostile action ’’

The two men glanced at each other.

“That’s more like it.”

A shadow drifted across the view-
port. From somewhere overhead, on
the yacht’s nose, came a feint rumble.

Hunsacker warily glanced out the
viewport, to see the flying creature
twist sharply to one side.

There was a blast of pink radiance,
that narrowly missed it.

The flit shot" down around the op-
posite side pf the yacht, there was a
violent snatching scrabbling noise,
then a loud booming^ note, a sizzling
sound, and a shriek.

Fielding, adjusting the viewscreen,
said, “This yacht seems to have some
kind of energy cannon mounted on it.
— ^There goes the flit, diving straight
down!”

Dave glanced at the screen, to see
a burst of bright lines rise up from
the forest to form a net around the
creature, which abruptly spread its
huge wings, twisted in tbe fiery lines
and slammed wildly into the treetops.

The two men watched the screen
thoughtfully.

Dave said, “What was that scratch-
ing sound after the energy cannon
took a crack at the flit the first time r ’

Fielding shook his head. “There
must be some way to get a better look
than I got. It seemed to me the flit
tried to run up the side of the yacht
to get at the cannon.”

Hunsacker thought it over. “And
what was the booming noise r ’

AMAZING

“I don’t know. Everything hap-
pened fast just then. I didn’t see any-
thing that ought to have made that
noise.” He glanced at the viewscreen,
and worked its control switches. “The'
side of the ship seems to be okay.”

Dave looked out the closed view-
port.

“Rotate the ship, why don’t you,
and let’s take a look around.”

Fielding turned the chrome-plated
control-stick, and the ship slowly ro-
tated. -

Peering out through the vievs^ort,
Dave Hunsacker saw a pair of dots
approaching from the direction of the
lightening sky to the east, and several
more to the northeast. In the other
directions, the sky was still too dark
to make out anything in the distance.

“What do you see r ’ he asked.

“Flits,” said Fielding. “Of course,
we’d expect to see them. They’re
migrating north with the spring. And
we’re right on the main route.”

“These don’t look like they’re mi-
grating north right now. They’re
headed towards us.”

Fielding nodded. “I see it, but I
don’t understand it. Well. . . . Now
what do we do r ’

Dave tried to get a mental grip on
the situation, but couldn’t do it.

Fielding suggested, “Set down
again r ’

“We might as well, I suppose.”

Fielding nodded moodily.

“Flits and slags; slags and flits. . . .
That’s the story of this planet. If it
isn’t one miserable thing, it’s
another.”

Dave nodded, and stared out the
viewport. “They are headed this way,
and coming fast.”

“I’ll set down.” Fielding swung the
ship back over the bluff, there was a
brief dazzling flash from below, and
he lowered the ship to a gentle land-

ing beside the other yacht, in the
clearing known as Packbear Flats. The
two men dropped down the grav
shaft, lowered the ramp, and got out.

There was a small crowd at the base
of the second yacht, but Dave
stopped beside a tall girl standing a
little back from the crowd. He said
nothing, looking at the working col-
onists and the watching girls, then
glanced uneasily at the sky.

She followed his gaze. “Trouble r ’

He noted that the flits he could still
see from here were considerably
closer, and still apparently headed for
the same spot as before.

He nodded. “Trouble, with wings.”

“The kind of bird that stalked us
yesterday? — That was coming north
in a big flock r ’

“The same. Apparently the flock
has paused and spread out to hunt.
They do that sometimes, when there’s
bad weather further north.”

“I can’t see them.”

“Look for a dot that seems not
quite stationery, or a kind of dust par-
ticle with a slow waving motion. With
practise, unless there’s one inside a
cloud, or coming at you with the sun
behind it — you can spot them a long
way off. — Especially after they drop
down after you once or twice.”

She smiled wryly.

“Did all these things turn out just
for us? The bears, these flying things,
and these things you mentioned that
live in big trees, and knock down the
flying things r ’

“It’s just that the weather’s chang-
ing. The slags — the things in the
trees — hibernate like the bears. The
flits winter in the south. A week or
two ago, all these things were out of
sight.” He glanced at the other space
yacht. “Is it flyable r ’

“The fuel line and some of the wir-
ing had been ripped loose. That’s

WHILE THE NORTH WIND BLOWS

nearly fixed. But the plates in the
base section have been so badly bat-
tered that it would leak air no matter
what we might do. It’s flyable, I
think, as long as it doesn’t leave the
planet. But we should get it out of
sight. You’d be surprised how visible
one of these yachts is from high up.”

He nodded, but for a moment
didn’t say anything. Her presence af-
fected him like cool water after a long
hot day. Then he smiled, checked the
sky again, and described what had
happened. As he finished, he was
conscious of someone else, and turned
to see several men, and a strongly
built woman of about medium height,
a wrench in one hand, listening in-
tently to him. This was Phyllis Laf-
fert, about whom the colony’s men,
their egos rubbed raw by her abrasive
tongue, often said, “If she was a man,
you’d have to break her neck. Since
she’s a woman — well, what can you
dor’

She said now, “Well, that’s nice.
The slags are awake, then ; ’

“Wide awake,” said Dave. “There’s
one, just back from the edge of the
clearing, that erupts like a volcano.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“You’d say there are more around
the clearing than last year r ’

Dave nodded. “A lot more. Before
we got away from there, there were
dozens of them, and from where I
was, only part of the forest was visi-
ble. On top of that, it’s just turned
warm, and the youngest ones will still
be in torpor, so we didn’t run into all
of them.”

“They have to be cut down,” she
said to the men, “or thinned out. It’s
getting so that if a dead leaf blows
over that field, it’s like an aerial bar-
rage.”

The men standing around looked
profoundly uncomfortable, and said

nothing.

She said, “We can’t keep planting
that field if those slags aren’t thinned
out somehow.”

One of the men said hesitantly,
“Maybe a little later in the year — ”

She looked at him angrily.

“A little later, nothing. This should
have been taken care of in the winter,
while they were asleep. They have no
natural enemies. It’s up to us to con-
trol their numbers.”

“Yes, but Phyl — To climb one of
those trees at twenty below zero with
your hands numb, and not a branch
from the ground up for eighty feet — ”

“They should be cut down.”

“Whatr In a howling gale, trees
that size, with the wood froze like
rock r’

There was a brief twanging sound
before she could reply and they all
looked around, to see the other space
yacht slowly and majestically rise up
until it was at the height of the bluff,
then pause, and climb slowly higher.
It was perhaps one hundred and fifty
feet above the height of the top of the
bluff when ■ a brilliant line of fire
reached up toward the yacht from
somewhere back in the forest.

Phyllis Laffert, in a tone of disgust,
said, “Now they’re there, too. — Scat-
ter ”

Dave saw one of the disk-shaped
skimmer’s sitting not far off. Since ev-
eryone else at once headed for the
base of the bluff, and the caves there,
he caught the girl’s hand, and led her
quickly to the skimmer.

From overhead came a loud clang-
ing, but he didn’t spare the time to
glance up. He shot the skimmer off
flat and fast, away from the bluff.
When he glanced back, no one was in
sight, the yacht was a mere speck
high in the sky, and steam was rising
from patches of snow on the flat land

AMAZING

near the other yacht.

She glanced around, looked at him,
and smiled suddenly, but said noth-
ing.

He hovered briefly above some low
trees below the bluff, his mind a
maze of calculations.

He studied the sky, and the flits.
They were still high up, and they
were still coming. From his present
angle of vision he could see no less
than six of them.

She followed his gaze. “Now I see
them. What are they doing r ’

“That’s what I want to find out.”

He swung the skimmer up, and the
morning sun, just lighting the
treetops, seemed to lift over the hori-
zon as he rose. Still below the top of
the bluff, he passed above the yacht
left standing below, and as the sun
struck its upright bow, a piercing
green flash half-blinded him.

He said, “That’s the pulse-relection
coating ?’

She nodded. “It stores up light-
energy — however feeble the light may
be — and releases it almost straight up
when the stored energy reaches a cer-
tain level. You can see the flash a
long distance up. Since it emits only
the wave-length coded for that par-
ticular yacht, to a certain extent you
can identify the yacht by eye — by the
color of the flash.”

“You can see it very well r ’

“Yes. It’s like a beacon.”

“Can you scrape this coating off?’

“You have to somehow dismount
the cannon first. The coating is a
safety feature, and as I remember the
service manual, the cannon is hooked
up to protect the coating from damage
by life-forms attracted by the radia-
tion pulses.”

He nodded.

“And you say there were fifteen
yachts in the party you started out

with r ’

She nodded. “We broke up after
the trouble on one of the colony
planets. That was when it dawned on
us that some of the others were using
a kind of drug, and raiding the col-
onists.”

“All we need is another crew like
that last one. — Hang on!”

She took a strong grip on the hand-
holds.

He glanced around, noted the yacht
overhead had moved off to the side,
and shot up above the edge of the
blufiF. As the forest atop the bluft’
dropped below, he slowed, and
watched.

A lance of flame about an inch thick
started climbing from below. It
arched up like a fusion beam warping
through a dense gravitic field, and it
was headed so nearly straight for
them that Dave could only judge its
height by the foreshortened glowing
curve he could make out. He started
climbing again.

She crouched low, peering over the
edge.

There was a sort of wavering of the
bright curve, and then it broke, and
as far as could be seen, there was
nothing.

They were now high up, and the
wind was beginning to buffet the
skimmer. Dave glanced around, but
not down. He hadn’t been in the
open at such a height in years, and an
attack of vertigo was all he needed.

She said, “That was just one of
them r ’

He nodded. “Usually there’s a
bunch of them, so anything passing
overhead runs the risk of getting gril-
led in the pattern put up by the col-
ony. The only way to avoid being at-
tacked is to get well below tree level;
but you can still get hit when any-
thing else gets attacked. If you hap-

WHILE THE NORTH WIND BLOWS

pen to be down there when the hot
pitch comes down, that’s not much
fun.”

The skimmer’s communicator buz-
zed and crackled. Jim Fielding’s voice
said, “Nice fireworks. You okay r’

“Yeah. This thing has a good rate of
climb. ”

“Don’t shake hands with yourself
too soon. Another batch of flits are
out.”

Dave looked around. “That makes
sense. Where did you see them r ’

“To the west. They’re headed
north, and there must be fifty or sixty
at least in the part of the main body.
How high are you now r ’

“High enough so I’m afraid to look
over the edge. Why r ’

“Then you’re about their height.
Watch out the flankers don’t get div-
ing room above you.”

Dave looked around, and saw noth-
ing in the cloudy gloom to the west.

“This wasn’t a flock of young ones,
was itr’

‘The smallest one I saw looked
about twenty feet across the
wingtips.”

“How were they flying r’

“Beat. But hungry. They weren’t
making a sound, apart from a slow
creak of their wings. We got a good
look. This yacht is nice for sight-
seeing. ”

“Did they attack r ’

‘They ignored us. But they may
not ignore you.”

Dave looked to the west and again
saw nothing.

‘Thanks,” he said.

“Glad to bring the happy tidings,”
said Fielding.

Dave was now gradually starting to
freeze. He felt for the communicator’s
shut-off, and said, “See you, Jim, I
hope.”

“Yeah. Good luck, Dave.”

He found some kind of a switch,
the communicator clicked, and he
looked around. To the east, he spot-
ted the flits he had seen before.

The huge creatures were close now,
coming together as if drawn from half
of a circle miles across. As he
watched, one-by-one they came to-
gether, and swung around each other,
a total of nine huge predators with
their outstretched heads turning first
this way, then that.

Dave cautiously looked over the
edge of the skimmer. Far below, al-
most directly beneath the circling
flits, was the oblong clearing.

They seemed to be at about the
same height, and directly over the
same part of the forest, where the
yacht had been attacked by the first
flit.

He frowned. What had brought all
these predators together? Particularly
at just the spot where one of their
number had attacked the ship — which
had since moved on r

“Fish around in that compartment,”
he said, “and see if you can find a
blanket, robe, or something.”

She drew out a large plaid blanket,
and passed it to him. As he took it, it
grew warm to the touch.

From somewhere came a flick-
flick-flick sound, and he glanced up.

A huge creature, big beak out-
stretched, hurried past some sixty feet
overhead, dropped down, and joined
the other circling monsters.

Dave gave brief silent thanks that
they were still alive, and glanced at
the girl. Her pale expression as she
searched the sky reaffirmed his esti-
mate of her sense. But the fact re-
mained that they had both missed
that one, and it could have had them
if it hadn’t been on more urgent busi-
ness.

There were now ten gigantic flits

AMAZING

circling slowly, turning their heads
alertly in all directions.

Dave looked around.

She said, “There.”

From the vague gray background to
the west emerged another one.

Eleven flits circled patiently, look-
ing earnestly all around.

She pointed toward the northwest.

“Here’s another.”

As Dave glanced around, he faintly
heard something coming from a dif-
ferent direction. Then, it was clearer :

Flick-flick-flick.

He looked down.

Below the level of the skimmer,
neck outstretched, head tilted, came
another one — this time from the
southwest.

There were now thirteen of the
gigantic creatures circling, necks out-
stretched, tilting their heads this way
and that.

He glanced around, and saw, due
west, an unusually big one flapping its
way in against the wind.

Now fourteen of the monsters cir-
cled, grimly patient.

Dave’s mind was a boiling turmoil
as he tried to join disconnected bits
and pieces of information to make
some sense of what was happening.
One after another the thoughts
flashed into his mind, to be examined
like the separate pieces of a puzzle :

The flits were coming north.

They were hungry.

They were at or close to the spot
where one had attacked the yacht.

The yacht, at that time, had just
barely escaped the slags.

The slags lived in resinous trees,
could digest the cellulose of the trees,
but seemed to also need a small
amount of protein. The slags got pro-
tein by knocking down flying crea-
tures that passed overhead, the huge
flits making particularly desired

targets.

Except for the slags, the flits had no
known natural enemies.

The slags themselves had no known
natural enemies at all.

The flits, except when migrating
lived separated, each pair apparently
having their own territory, and adjust-
ing the borders according to their
numbers.

The slags lived in colonies, which
increased fast.

The slags apparently made, their
raw material from the resin of the
trees in which they lived, but how
they made it in such quantities, pro-
jected it to such heights — and particu-
larly how they lit it in the first
place — were mysteries none of the
colonists had yet solved. About all
that was definitely known was that the
slags were very free with their fiery
blast in wet weather, and cautiously
sparing in times of drought.

Dave thought it over in bafilement,
and two more pieces of information
occurred to him :

The slags were far more numerous
now than when the colonists had first
arrived.

The flits, too, were clearly more
numerous.

— And then, as he watched the
circling flits, the scattered pieces of
information suddenly began to fit to-
gether. He glanced around, aware
that he had fallen into a dangerous
reverie, and then he saw that the girl
was alertly keeping watch, one hand
on the skimmer’s gun.

Dave glanced at the flits in momen-
tary puzzlement. The day before, he’d
been certain that one of them was
stalking the skimmer — getting in posi-
tion for an attack. Today, they acted
almost as if the skimmer were a fellow
creature.

Frowning, he said, “Chloe r ’

WHILE THE NORTH WIND BLOWS

She smiled.

He said, “I want to try something.
Keep an eye on these flits, and let me
know if any of them makes any mo-
tion as it to attack us. I’m going to be
watching the forest.”

She nodded, and glanced carefully
all around.

He swung the skimmer past the
huge monotonously circling creatures,
and one or two of the monsters
glanced at him with what appeared to
be an approving friendly gaze. For a
moment, he had a weird sense of
circling with his fellows, high in the
sky, wings spread, the world
stretched out below. He told himself
that he needed sleep, recovered the
thread of his thoughts, and started to
drop the skimmer down.

After a moment, she caught her
breath, started to speak, then re-
mained tensely silent. Then she
glanced at him.

“They don’t seem to be going to at-
tack us — but they’re following us
down.”

He looked up, to see that several of
the huge creatures had left the circle,
and were spiraling down, following
the skimmer.

“Hang on,” he said. “Apparently
there has never been anything on this
planet roughly their size and shape
that could fly, except themselves — so
they seem to accept us as being one of
them. In case they change their
minds, though, we want to be ready
to get out of here in a hurry.”

She watched them alertly. “I hope
they don’t change their minds.”

“The slags, of course, will also take
us for flits.”

Dave, looking down at the forest a
little later, thought that they were
almost as low now as the yacht had
been when the slags had gone to work
on it. But, so far, there was no re-

sponse from below, and he continued
to drop down.

Then, near the edge of the clear-
ing, a yellow glow burst into life, and
another, and another. Dozens of glow-
ing lines began to climb up out of the
still dark forest into the sunlight.

From above came a sudden boom-
ing, a noise such as Dave and Jim
Fielding had heard earlier, but far
louder, and growing louder yet. The
separate notes seemed to reinforce,
resonate, gather power —

"Hang on!” said Dave. He checked
to see that she had a firm grip, then
shot the skimmer fast to the side. The
forest and the rising streams of fire
blurred, the booming died away, he
peered ahead, and up, and sent the
skimmer into a steep climb.

The forest dropped away below,
until they were looking down on scat-
tered clouds, sunlit treetops, and two
curving arcs of gray specks that con-
verged toward the gray-and-white rec-
tangle of snow-filled clearing atop
the bluff Even here, in the whistle of
an icy wind, he could hear a faint
booming note, and see a cross-
hatching of bright lines against the
darker background of the forest.

She looked all around. “Is it safe
here?”

He glanced around dubiously. “If
your friends on the other yachts don’t
show up. If the skimmer doesn’t quit
on us.”

“What happened back there? Did
you figure out what they were do-
ing?’

“Something Jim Fielding said oc-
curred to me. He said it looked as if
the flit that attacked us had tried to
run up the side of the ship to get at
the energy cannon. Now, the energy
cannon used heat-energy as a
weapon. To one of these flying
monsters, what would that mean that

AMAZING

an energy cannon is r ’

“A slagr’

“Exactly. And the yacht — a vertical
cylinder — what can that be but a very
tall tree? Now, if the flit tries to run
up the side of the ship, which it
thinks is a tree, to get the energy-
cannon, which it thinks is a slag, what
will it do with a real slag ?’

She looked over the edge, where
the gray specks were vanishing, and
the bright lines were no longer visi-
ble.

“Then,” she said, “that booming
was a call, and the flits that hear it go
to the spot where they heard the call
given. But why should they prey on
the slags now and not ordinarily r ’

“Ordinarily, they’re spread out in
pairs. What can one or two of them
do against a whole colony of slags?
But now they’re migrating, and
they’re in large numbers. What they
live on when they’re migrating, I
don’t know, but I imagine they wel-
come a nice juicy slag when they can
get it — and there’s a big colony of
them down there. The possibility
should have dawned on us before.
Something must keep down the
numbers of the slags, or they’d over-
run the planet.”

He glanced around, looked down,
and saw a cloud of stream drifting
from the forest near the clearing.

He snapped on the communicator.

My. r*»

Jim r

“Dave?’ answered Jim Fielding’s
voice. “You still with us ?’

“So far. Why?’

“A hurricane of flits went by,
headed in your direction. I thought
maybe they were taking turns drop-
ping you on the rocks.”

“No, we’re friends with them. We
showed them where your pals the
slags hang out, and the flits went
down for a visit.”

There was a silence and a murmur
of voices, then Fielding said, “Abe’s
in touch with us from the other
skimmer, near the cabins. He says
there was a noise like the sky had
turned into a washtub, and someone
was pounding on it, and then there
was a terrific uproar, with screams,
breaking branches, streaks of fire in
all directions, sizzling snow, shrieks,
bellows, and clutching noises. Do you
mean to tell me the flits went after
the slags ?’

Dave glanced all around, just in
case, then said, “It seems reasonable
to me. But I don’t know what hap-
pened. We got out of there. You can
go take a good close look if you want
to.”

“If there weren’t quite so many
holes in this tub, we would. Where
are you now ?’

“Roughly over the clearing. It
seems to me that we’re about three
miles up. You know, it might be pos-
sible to get those yachts into the
forest now without getting cooked.
The slags have something else to
think about.”

‘That’s a thought. Maybe we
could.” There was a tense pause. “We
won’t get another chance like this.
Okay, we’re going to try it.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. Same to you, Dave ... I
hope.”

“See you, Jim.” He snapped off the
communicator, and glanced at the
girl, who, the blanket tight around
her shoulders, and her hands gripping
the edge of the skimmer, was looking
over the rim to see beneath the
skimmer. She turned, and glanced
around overhead.

Dave watched approvingly, not
only struck by her looks, but by her
alertness. He glanced quickly around,
then started down.

WHILE THE NORTH WIND BLOWS

"You seem,” he said, “to catch onto
the spirit of this place unusually fast.”

She nodded. “In some ways, it’s
just like home. Only there should be
more snow, and a lot of salt water.”

“A colony planet r ’

She said ironically, “Just a planet to
get rich quick on, and get off of in
three years.”

He grinned. “I suppose a person
could learn a lot in those three
years.”

She nodded. “Such as ‘Keep look-
ing ahead, or you may go through
where it’s thin, and come up where
it’s thick.’ That is, under the ice.”

He considered it, and glanced
briefly around. “No wonder this place
seems almost like home to you. The
spirit’s the same. It’s just the details
that are difierent. But we have a poet
here, to immortalize the details. Can
you equal this :

“ ‘Do your dreaming while at home
in bed.

Our stranglebush makes walking
sleepers dead.’ ”

“H’m,” she said, “ ‘stranglebush.’ ”
She grinned and glanced around.
“Yes, I think we had something al-
most as nice :

“ ‘Stay on-trail.

That’s the law.

Snowtrapper has
A one meter jaw.’ ”

They looked at each other, and
suddenly they were both laughing.

He said, “There was something I
wanted to ask you, but I’ve been
hesitating. For one thing, we haven’t
known each other very long. For
another thing, there’s something
about this place which — while at least
it’s not civilization — still, it falls short
of perfection. Moreover — ”

“Do you,” she said, smiling, “al-
ways make these long speeches before
you say something r ’

“I was afraid you might not ap-
preciate what it’s actually /ike here.”

She glanced around alertly. “That’s
true, but I do know what civilization
is like. We found that out after Daddy
found the ore-body, and all of a sud-
den we had money.” She said this as
she might have said, “Then I slipped
in a hole and got a broken leg. ”

Dave glanced around, and studied a
large dark cloud about half-a-mile
away. He glanced down, where the
treetops swayed, and steam and wet
smoke boiled up.

“This,” he said looking back at her,
“encourages me to offer you a way to
escape from all that.”

“Some day, if you ever get around
to actually making the offer, maybe
I’ll tell you what happened. You want
to know in case you ever should land
in the same spot.”

“The way things are here, the
danger of that is slight. However,
there are other things, and Tm trying
to remember . . . yes, I think I’ve got
it, now. You should know at least this
much before I say anything else. Just
keep an eye on that big dark cloud
while I recite this.

She cast a quick look around, and
watched the cloud. He thought a
moment, then slowly recited :

“ ‘Welcome, Friend, to our planet of
ease.

In winter here, you will sneeze
and freeze;

But don’t complain without good rea-
son;

Save your curse for a still worse
season.

When sweet summer’s sun the snows
doth warm.

The pests pour forth in a hideous
swarm :

Bears and badgers, slags and flits.

Bugs to drive you out of your wits;
Stung youll be, and frequently bit.

AMAZING

Just name it, Friend; we’ve got
it.’ ”

She laughed, and he said, “That
doesn’t cover it, but you should have
sotne idea.”

She glanced at him shyly, then
spoke in a soft voice. “I think I follow
your reasoning; but you’re so cagy
about actually saying anything that
I’m having a little trouble springing
the trap.” She glanced at the cloud.
“However, there’s still time, if you
hurry. Perhaps it will help if I recite a
verse .-

“ ‘While the icy northwind still doth
blow.

Hasten your travehngs o’er the
snow.

Brethren, sweet springtime’s cozy
hush

Will sink you deep in bottomless
mush.’

“And,” she said, looking around,
“this is going to be a warm day.”

He took a quick glance around,
then, alternately glancing at the ap-
proaching cloud and at the space
yacht slowly descending toward the
clearing, he proposed.

She accepted.

During that instant when neither
was watching, there burst from the
cloud, wings folded and claws out-
stretched, a large flit, followed by a
second, a third, and a fourth. They
shot past the yacht, directly between
it and the skimmer, and headed for
the forest. Atop the yacht, the energy
cannon loomed out of its housing.

Dave shouted, “Hang on ”

She gripped the holds, he glanced
back, and snapped the skimmer sharp-
ly to the north.

The blaze of pink radiance shot
past, the flits vanished through a hole
in the treetops, a slag below was al-
ready taking a shot, and as Dave
swerved sharply, another flit dropped
out of the cloud and went past like a
bounder.

He got more height, then went
over the edge of the bluff high
enough up to avoid the slag nested in
the trees somewhere down there, and
at once was almost blinded by the
glare from the nose of the yacht be-
low. He glanced through the af-
terimages to observe that she had
shut her eyes in time, and as he
dropped down toward the yacht, he
wondered briefly just what this planet
she had come from had actually been
like, to breed such alertness and men-
tal control.

Sometime soon, he thought, he’d
have to ask her — sometime when the
door was triple-barred and braced, his
gun loaded and handy, the shutters
barred from within, and either a roar-
ing fire in the fireplace, or the
chimney-stone lowered solidly into its
rests, and the lift-pole jammed in
place.

But not just now.

He glanced around intently.

It didn’t pay to let the mind wan-
der

— Christopher Anvil

WHILE THE NORTH WIND BLOWS

DUEL

CHARLES DE VET

It was to be a duel to the death — between hunter and hunter!

Illustrated by RICHARD OLSEN

I PICKED UP the first rumor of the Big
Cat in Kabul, capitol city of Afghanis-
tan. A bush-bearded pilgrim with
square teeth was talking in a loud
voice that carried across the lobby of
the Alskander Rest hotel to where I
sat sippling a tequila stinger. “The
biggest damned cat you ever saw,” he
declaimed to an anemic oldster,
“twice as big as a lion or a tiger.”

It took a minute for the import of
his words to sink in, and when it did
I set my drink on the small table be-
side me and rose with carefully
restrained eagerness and walked over
to where the two men stood. “I hope
I’m not intruding, sir,” I addressed
the pilgrim. “I believe I heard you
mention a big cat r ’

“You heard right, my friend. Big as
hell — and just as mean.” The hirsute
traveler was happy to accomodate an
addition to his audience. “It’s sup-
posed to weigh well over twelve
hundred pounds, a great black beast,
with a wide white stripe running
down the middle of its back. The
story is that it killed a full-sized horse
and carried it off.”

“Did it kill any humans r’ I asked.

“I heard it killed a half dozen, the
first day it showed up.” He paused to
savor my obvious fascination, then
added regretfully, “I’m afraid that’s
about all I can tell you though, be-
cause that’s all I know.”

“Did you hear, by any chance, that
it was intelligent?’ I drew in my
breath, afraid to hope.

“I did hear that it was mighty
crafty, now that you mention it. The
Kurds went after it full force, but it
always tricked them and got away.
That sounds pretty smart to me.”

“You said Kurds?’

“Yes. It turned up in the Kurdistan
mountains, in Turkey I believe,
though it might have been on that
sector of the plateau that juts over
into Iraq. The Kurds don’t pay too
much attention to national bound-
aries, you know.”

Which was all I needed to spur my
gaming instincts into action. I excused
myself, found a telephone booth, and
called the airport. An hour later I was
on a plane bound for Malatya, Tur-
key.

By this time of course I had a pret-
ty good idea what the cat was, and
where it came from. A couple times
before one of them had shown up on
Earth, displaying a brief, ferocious
proclivity for killing and violence,
then disappearing. The assumption
that they were from some other
planet was obvious, their purpose in
coming to Earth more difficult to de-
termine.

I was certain I knew. They must
have a highly developed technology.

AMAZING

to have spaceflight, yet that profi-
ciency must have developed quickly,
while their primitive, savage instincts
still formed a large part of their racial
heritage. They came to Earth as we
go on hunting expeditions to Africa,
to test our skill and courage against
the dangerous animals there.

Nothing would give me more plea-
sure than to contest this particular
hunter.

I HAD TO make an overnight stop in
Shiraz, Iran, but I reached Malatya
about ten the following morning — and
there confirmed the rumor of the Big
Cat. It was supposed to be holed up
near Gavar, a small Kurdish town
about ten miles west of Diyarbakir. I
hired a car and driver to take me
there.

In Gavar, with the help of my
driver and a local gasoline purveyor, I
found a sleeping room above the
town’s largest drinking place, the
Thirsty Camel. Modern conveniences
there were at a minimum, but right
now that was the least of my con-
cerns.

The people of Gavar had no reluc-
tance to talk about the Big Cat, it was
their main topic of conversation, but
they had no intention of going any-
where near it. The creature had killed
three more men, as they sought to
track it down, and none of Gavar’s
citizens intended to be added to the
list.

I did learn that a tribe of nomad
Kurds — the Hamavands — had taken
up semi-permanent residence a few
years back on a plain about a mile and
a half above the village. The Gat was
supposed to be lurking somewhere in
that vicinity — which made it my next
objective.

I chose a Marlinger 77 from my
gun pack. The rifle had brought down

DUEL

elephants, and was as accurate as any
I owned. I would need both qualities,

I was certain. I wrapped the gun and
ammunition in an oilskin pouch and
put them inside my bedroll, with a
supply of groceries, added my pup
tent, and set out for the nomad camp.

In the Hamavand settlement I
sought out the tribal chieftain, a
blond man with candid blue eyes,
named Frank Bruha — the Rock. (The
Kurds are all fair skinned. According
to legend their ancestors were the
progenitors of the Caucasian race.
Centuries ago a confederation of
tribes had come out of the Kurdistan
mountains, and over many genera-
tions made their way along the north-
ern shore of the Mediterranian to the
Iberian peninsula, and on up the At-
lantic coast — leaving behind cities and
settlements all along their route. The
vanguard had finally settled in Ire-
land, by which time they were known
as Celts.)

“My name is Ed Rauen,” I intro-
duced myself to Bruha. I had some
hope of getting information and
perhaps help fi'om him, but he
greeted me with normal Kurdish
taciturnity. About all I learned was
that a horse had been killed out on its
feeding grounds the day before —
horses seemed to be the favorite food
of the Cat. I went for my rifle.

I FOUND what remained of the horse,
and studied the dead animal, observ-
ing how one hind quarter had been
cut away as neatly as though sheared
through with a giant blade — and that
there were blood and gouge marks on
the ground about the carcass, but no
scraps of hide or bone. I remembered
then that the savage brutes ate every-
thing, including hide and bone. The
strength of jaw and tooth necessary
for that feat was almost inconceivable.

At the prospect of the hunt to come a
pleasant spurt of adrenahn jetted
throu^ my bloodstream.

I surveyed my surroundings care-
fully. On this territory the battle
would be joined, and I wanted to
know it thoroughly. It was all flatland,

I saw, with a good supply of feeding
grass, and a high rock wall in the near
distance, where the meadow ended
and the mountains began — and my
heart gave a great leaping bound.

Across the ragged face of the wall
moved a white-streaked black shadow.

I pulled up my rifle and peered
through the telescope sight. It was
the Cat! Beyond any doubt. Calmly
steadily, I took aim — and fired.

A puff of rock fragments appeared
just above the animal’s shoulder — and
mingled with the fragments was a tuft
of black hair!

I nad scored.

The Cat’s head raised, with its
mouth open, and an instant later a
faint scream tore at my nerve ends.
The Cat’s head turned in my direc-
tion. I could see in the blazing red
eyes that it had spotted me — was see-
ing me as plainly as I saw it through
the telescope sight.

The brute power in those malignant
eyes seemed to tear through the gray
matter of my brain, sending a shock
wave of heat washing over my body
that brought perspiration bursting
from every pore. I suspect that much
of the reaction came from my own
imagination, yet my hands involuntar-
ily jerked the scope from my eyes, to
free them from that baleful glare.

All this action and reaction occur-
red in a split second, and immediately
I brought my weapon up again and
snapped off a second shot. I should
have gotten the brute that time, but
it sprang away, so swiftly that I got
the impression it had vanished, rather

AMAZING

than simply moving away.

I drew in a deep breath, and let it
out slowly. I may have lost the Cat,
or I may have already won the game.
At the very least I had wounded it,
which was more than I could have
hoped this soon.

The most foolhardy action I could
take now, I decided quickly, would
be to go after the brute. Pursuing a
wounded animal is always dangerous,
pursuing an intelligent wounded ani-
mal would be suicide. I’d wait a day
or two, let the beast bleed, then or-
ganize a search party and run it
down — if it still lived.

I FOUND a quite diverting way to oc-
cupy my time during the waiting
period. I had caught a few words as I
passed unnoticed behind two Kurds
that afternoon, and I reasoned out
quickly what they planned. A horse
raid. Which was logical, the
Hamavands were brigands, and the
Cat by this time must have depleted
their herd.

The next morning I rode into the
gathering of men and horses on the
meadow with my pack on my back.
Bruha gave me a quick glance of sur-
prise, but did not order me away.

Our party was not large — seven
men — but enough for the task at
hand. We did not wish to alert any
Shawn tribesmen who might observe
us, for it was their horses we in-
tended to steal.

We rode in a casual, loose forma-
ti6n, hoping to appear as hunters, out
for game. This was adventure, and a
stimulating feel of bravado pervaded
our little band, myself included. Near
the close of the day one of the Kurds
shot an antelope — which served the
double purpose of promoting our
hunter disguise, and helping stretch
our limited provisions. And then it

was that my pleasant mood suffered
an abrupt setback.

During the meal I chanced to
glance up — and found myself staring
directly into the Cat’s malevolent red
eyes. Only its head showed, above a
ridge less than fifty feet away. It
withdrew immediately.

Even as the realization struck that
the beast was certainly not dead — that
it had followed me here — I yelled and
grabbed my rifle and ran the short
distance to the rise where the head
had disappeared. The Cat was
nowhere in sight.

I returned to the bivouac somewhat
embarrassed. None of the others had
seen the Cat, and my excited dash
and empty-handed return aroused
considerable amusement. Especially
in the one named Shefiq.

He had been a minor irritant since
I arrived. He had taken advantage of
my lack of status not simply to ignore
me, but to subtly taunt me, as when
he’d mumble a Kurdish phrase, which
the others would understand and I
would not — my knowledge of their
language was limited — and there
would be laughter. I bided my time.

The second day we entered the
hills of Mamuret ul Aziz, homeland of
the Shawns, and rode another day be-
fore we reached our destination : a
herd of Shawn horses. We made
camp that night with much stealth
and silence. And the Cat made its
second appearance.

Only for a brief instant, with no
time to use the rifle at my side. I was
left with but one certainty: the Cat
had recognized me as its principal
opponent — and we vvould duel — to
the death of one or the other.

Why hadn’t it killed me during the
night, I asked myself, and my intui-
tion brought a ready answer. The Cat

DUEL

had its own hunting code — it must
win by wit and guile, by the exercise
of greater cunning. To kill me in the
dark, when I was helpless, would have
been a picayune victory.

That code might be the Cat’s undo-
ing. I had no such feelings of the
niceties of sportsmanship. I would
wait for it to make one mistake — any
mistake. I slept soundly that night.

We arose again in the first false
light of dawn and ate dried fruit for a
quick breakfast and packed our bed-
rolls, and afterward lit cigarettes and
tried to draw their warmth into our
bodies as Bruha gave us last instruc-
tions in muted undertones. As often
happens in the mountains a fierce
windstorm had come up an hour be-
fore dawn, and was sweeping in from
the plateau now, chilling us deeply
but aiding our concealment.

Bruha chose Shefiq and me to care
for the Shawns guarding the
horses — a sense of humor, I sus-
pected. We moved out into the dim
daylight, Shefiq to the right and I to
the left, toward a small copse of trees.
It had been calculated that the guards
would be there, out of the worst of
the storm, yet where they could keep
their charges under observation. We
would approach them from the rear.

We had chosen well. I came up on
my horse guard with his back hun-
kered to the wind, and I pushed the
blade of my kiard through his neck
before he was aware I was there.
There was much blood in the man,
and it gushed out freely, flooding my
hand and running down my forearm.

I did not wipe away the blood —
until I reached camp again. There I
raised my red hand, displaying the
kiard and the bright blood. Ostenta-
tiously then I cleaned the hand and the
weapon on the outside wool of my

zouave jacket — where the Kurds
would see it every time they glanced
my way. It was an overly dramatic
performance, but I knew it would im-
press my hosts.

Shefiq appeared then — and he was
not alone. Beside him a Shawn
maiden rode in the saddle of a cap-
tured horse, with her hands tied to
the pommel and her feet bound be-
neath the belly of the horse. Shefiq’s
scarf was around her mouth.

He must have decided against kil-
ling her when he found her guarding
the horses, perhaps from reluctance
to kill a girl, but my guess was that
he had taken her simply because he
wanted her, in the high reckless way
that was so much a part of his nature.
Bruha, I could see, did not
approve — but the deed had been
done, and there was no time now for
remonstrances.

Bruha rode through the horses,
making them restless, and when we
shouted and spurred our mounts at
them they wheeled and galloped after
Bruha’s lead mare, as Kurd horses do
by instinct. By mid-morning we had
ridden out the storm, but we still
drove the horses hard, until their
backs grew moist and steamy and the
wildness left them and they trotted
docily. We should have stayed well
ahead of any pursuers.

Shefiq rode beside the Shawn
maiden — Gulchin, we had learned her
name was. In the early part of the
morning he brought her some dried
bread and a lady finger of dried beef,
and a skin of du to wash them down.
She took them without thanks, mut-
tering. “Bah! La’nat ullah ’alainim!”

Shefiq took the cursing without
offense. When she finished her meal
he gave her a cigarette, which he lit,
and one for himself, and laughed

AMAZING

when she drew the smoke deep into
her lungs and blew it into his face. I
had to admit he was handsome, with
his wild-hawk features and machismo
manner, and before the noon hour
came Gulch in allowed herself to
laugh, and return some of his sallies.

Toward evening he sang her a
courting song. He had only a fair
voice, but he sang with emotion, and
had a facile gift of mimicry. At the
end Gulchin smiled at him with misty
eyes. It could be seen that she was
prepared now to let him have his will
with her.

I too had given her attention often
during the ride. She was young,
perhaps no more than sixteen, but
she was tall and fair, already in the
full bloom of womanhood, with a
strong feminine attraction, and all
about her an aura of leashed, un-
tamed vitality. She reminded me.
acutely, that I had not had a woman
in several weeks.

She was not shy. She accepted
Shefiq’s increasingly bold remarks
■with only small reticence, and re-
turned his hungry glances with a di-
rect gaze. Shefiq chewed his tawny
mustache, lust in his slightly bulging
eyes, as he waited impatiently for the
night.

Shefiq was not a true Kurd, more a
.Mongol, but a mixture of several
races, and a vagabond much
traveled. The belief was that he was
in the employ of the .Vluscovites to
the north. I guessed that he saw me
as an agent of the United States, a
rival of his employers.

His attitude toward me had grown
more cautious. Word of my handling
of the horse guard had undoubtedly
reached him, and he saw me now as
someone not to be insulted with im-
punity. Often I caught his calculating
glance turned my way, as he weighed

and measured me. The antagonism
had not left his regard — rather a new
quality had been added to it. He
would kill me soon — if I did not kill
him first.

The chill night winds had begun
to sweep down from the hills, dispel-
ling the day’s high heat, as we steered
our horses into a narrow gully. There
was little fodder for them there, for it
had been stripped near clean by the
small black locusts that covered the
floor of the gully, but they could
quench their thirst in the stream at
the bottom.

When we finished our evening
meal Shefiq prepared Gulchin’s blan-
kets for her, well back from the
others.

And a plan was born, suddenly,
full-blown in my mind.

Even before I was certain the
others slept I left my bed and made
my way around to where the girl lay.

I touched her lightly and laughed
deep in my throat, the way Shefiq
did, but near soundlessly. She pulled
her blanket back and I slid in beside
her.

She had removed her tunic and
shirt, but her body was tense and
fearful, and I kissed her and caressed
her gently, moving my hands placat-
ingly over her body, until the
restraint left her and she pressed
tightly against me.

Still I did nothing, merely holding
her close and fondling her, and soon
she began to croon, and sway softly. I
breathed in a warm fragrance that
came from the pores of the flesh it-
self.

Then I loved her, and she retained
my love, fierce as only a Kurdish
maiden can be, breaking the skin of
my shoulder with her teeth at the
finish.

DUEL

As soundlessly as I had come I left.

Another ten minutes passed, and I
heard an indignant exclamation from
the girl, and a curse in the tones of
Shefiq. There was a brief struggle,
and another curse from Shefiq, this
time in sharp pain. He continued to
curse all the way back to his blankets.

In the morning Shefiq discovered
that he’d lost face with the Kurds.
Though there was nothing concrete to
confirm it, only the sly sidelong
glances, the remarks one to another
in an undertone, and the small chuck-
les.

In Shefiq’s eyes as he studied me
was an adding up of the events of the
night before, and an understanding of
what had happened — and he grew
half mad with his need to repair his
loss. He had an animal cunning, how-
ever, and an agile mind, and I
'watched him go through his disem-
bling thoughts, and make his decision,
and postpone our moment of confron-
tation.

We both waited for darkness to
come a^in.

The girl too had her indecision. She
knew, of course, that it was Shefiq
she had repulsed. She had taken her
lover convinced that it was he, but
when she discovered her error her af-
fections were already bound to her
unknown lover. Her studied indif-
ference to Shefiq now, I was certain,
was genuine.

She had evidently quickly elimi-
nated the other Kurds from considera-
tion, and turned her inquiring gaze to
me. I met her regard with blank eyes.
I did not deceive her, but she was a
proud woman, and my reserve
brought that pride to the fore, and
she became cold to me, ignoring me
thereafter.

Which was as I had planned. I had

loved her to set a trap for Shefiq —
and to be honest, for my own
satisfaction — but that had to be the
end of it. There was no possibility of a
permanent liaison between me and
someone with her unsophisticated
background. And while I would cer-
tainly have enjoyed a longer dalliance,
at the present moment I needed to
devote all my attention and energies
to Shefiq.

That night when the Cat made its
appearance and disappearance — as it
continued its cat-and-mouse game to
unnerve me — it diverted my thoughts
from my other antagonist only
momentarily.

Under the cover of darkness I
made my preparations for what I was
certain would come. I had one big
advantage over Shefiq — I understood
how his mind worked — and I had
made my plans accordingly.

Quietly I removed my sheepskin
jacket, wrapping it loosely about my
left forearm and making a bulky roll a
foot thick. This I laid carefully, in
exact position, between my upper
thighs. I completed the preparations
by taking my heavy kiard in my right
hand and stretching my arm out at
full length, away from my body. And
I was as ready as I would ever be.

An hour passed, and another, until
the fire burned low, and flickered
out. Around me were only the sounds
of sleeping Kurds, and the horses in
the near distance. I grew slightly
cramped holding the same position for
so long, but I did not move, only al-
lowing my breath to grow heavy.

And abruptly it came!

A grunt of exertion from just above
me, accompanied by a jolt of pain in
my left arm as a kiard, driven with
ferocious energy, drove through the
bundle on my lap. Its point stopped

AMAZING

only when it grated against the bone
of my forearm.

Reacting instantly to the first stab
of pain I swept the dagger in my ex-
tended right hand around in a wicked
half arc, and felt it bury itself deep
into unresisting flesh. The someone
above me groaned, and a body fell
across my face and chest, arched in its
death agony. Slowly the starch
drained from the stricken body and it
relaxed.

For a brief moment I savored a vast
relief at how well I had estimated
Shefiq — ^for he it must be. He would
kill in the Mongol manner, I had de-
cided, in the meanest most debasing
way he knew, bringing his kiard slash-
ing up,' past the thighs, and emas-
culating his victim in the same stroke
that laid open his bowels. Leaving
him to die in agony, and subject to
the degrading amusement of any who
viewed his remains.

I rose quickly, before the carcass
could bleed, holding its slack weight
in my arms, and carried it a good
twenty yards from my bed. The camp
was quiet as I returned to my blan-
kets. So quiet that I knew all had
been wakened, and were listening,
knowing the struggle was between
Shefiq and myself, and raising no
voice to interfere. To the Kurds it was
a matter strictly outside their con-
cern.

The next morning the camp came
awake at the first break of day. I had
slept no more than a few hours. We
made our preparations to move, much
as we had done other mornings —
except that this time Shefiq would not
be leaving with us. The Kurds re-
garded his still carcass, and glanced
with raised eyebrows at rfie, but said
nothing. They reasoned out quickly
what had happened, and it seemed to
strike them as humorous. When we

moved on Shefiq’s body was left be-
hind for the buzzards and coyotes. He
had died without honor.

A FEW HOURS after we returned to
the Hamavand settlement I resumed
my quest of the Cat, roaming the
base of the rocky cliff — that had to be
its hiding place. All that afternoon,
and most of the following day I
hunted, without a glimpse of my an-
tagonist. I was careful not to go near
any cover it might use — otherwise,
with its great speed, it would be on
me before I could raise my rifle.
Which caution could have contributed
to my failure to find the animal.

The third day my patience grew
thin — and I, not the Cat, made the
first mistake. I had decided that it
must be hiding somewhere near
where I had first seen it, and I
climbed the cliff cautiously. The face
of the rock was not as steep as it ap-
peared from the distance, and rock
falls had made it uneven enough to be
traversed without difficulty.

My small indescretion came near
costing me my life. I had bent slightly
to keep my balance as I took a step,
when the Cat burst into view, charg-
ing across the slope, directly at me — a
great, rushing, slavering engine of de-
struction '

I had no time to set myself for a
shot — only an instant reflection of
dismay at the enormity of my
stupidity — before the hurtling black
beast was on me. Only the grace of a
benevolent god saved me then. Just
as the Cat reared to strike, a back foot
slipped on a pocket of rock chips, and
it lost its balance. It still brushed me,
heavily, knocking me against a boul-
der and driving the breath from my
lungs, but its sweeping claws missed
me.

I had kept my footing and the grip

DUEL

on my rifle, and I straightened quick-
ly. The Cat was just disappearing
around a rock outcrop below.

I stood gulping in air and sorting
out the impressions that had regis-
tered during the fleeting encounter.
Of primary interest were the Cat’s
motions as it charged. At each bound
its body had twisted to the left, then
back again as it straightened. It re-
minded me of the motions of a jaguar
I had come on several days after I
wounded it. The jaguar’s wound had
festered, and gangrene set in — I dis-
covered later when I examined
it — and the beast had been dying.
The conclusion was obvious — the Big
Cat was semi-disabled, probably dy-
ing.

Which may have been the reason
for its ill-planned attack on me. It had
heard me coming, and knew it could
not get away, and made its try at me
out of desperation. Or it had attacked
because it knew it would not live
much longer, and might not have
another chance to even the score. I
wondered why it did not simply re-
turn to its home world, where its
wounds could be treated. Pride? Or
some other emotion too alien for me
to understand r

Whatever the reason, time was on
my side now. From here in I would
play it very safe.

I HAD ANOTHER MEETING with the
Shawn maiden, Gulchin, that eve-
ning. The approaching end of the
hunt had filled me with an easy con-
tentment, and I celebrated mildly by
going into town for a good dinner,
and afterward stopped at the bar of
the Thirsty Camel for a bottle of beer.

There I saw the girl — mopping the
floor. For some reason the sight ‘of
her — stooping to this menial work —
made me angry. Somehow it seemed

a rebuke to me. I gave her two
hundred dollars and told her bruskly
to buy a horse and return home, or to
find a husband, if she insisted on stay-
ing here.

An hour later she came to my room
above the tavern, dressed in an out-
landish green ballroom dress, and car-
rying an armload of packages. She had
spent all her money on clothes.

Evidently she believed — despite
my words — that I had given her the
money because I wanted her back,
and she was overjoyed. There was
nothing for me to do then but to break
it off completely. I packed my few be-
longings, and though ^ving her money
had proven a waste, I did what I
could and left fifty more dollars on a
table and stopped downstairs and paid
the room rent for two months. I
would not be returning.

The next morning the Cat struck
again. Surprisingly, however, its at-
tack on a young horse in the meadow
had been a failure. The Kurds found
the colt with two ragged tears in one
side, and it died a few hours later,
but it was obvious that it had escaped
the Cat’s attack.

And that afternoon a woman was
killed — ^and partly eaten — within a
mile of Gavar.

There was much consternation in
the village, but by this time the Cat
had them thoroughly cowed. They
made no attempt to track the beast.

Not even when a boy died the next
morning, and another woman in the
evening. They sent a two man delega-
tion to offer me a hundred dollars if
Td kill their tormentor, but that was
all.

I continued my hunt more avidly
now. The signs were all there : the
Cat had weakened from its wound —
and probable infection. It was no

AMAZING

longer able to kill a large prey, was
reduced to hunting humans, and even
then only women and children. I had
begun to fear that it would die before
I had the satisfaction of killing it. I
concentrated on how to avoid that
eventuality. And that afternoon the
solution came.

I HAD HEARD that the girl, Gulchin,
had returned to her job of cleaning
the Thirsty Camel, and I went there
hoping to find her. I had heard also
that she had refused the attention of
other suitors, which fitted my plans
very well.

She was working in the tavern
when I arrived, and I talked to her,
and after a period of reticence she
agreed to have dinner with me. I took
her to the one first-class restaurant in
town.

We had a bottle of Mateus with our
meal, and were both in a mellow
mood when we finished. “Gulchin,” I
broached then, “I have a favor to ask
of you.” She looked inquiringly at me.
“You know that I hunt the Big Cat r ’ I
asked.

She nodded.

“What I’m going to ask may be
dangerous,” I cautioned. I took out
my wallet and withdrew one thousand
dollars — probably more money than
she’d ever seen — ^folded the bills into
a small packet and slipped them into
her unresisting hand. “Those are
yours, whether you decide to help me
or not.” I smiled at her. “With that
money you can get the finest young
man in Gavar.”

She did not return my smile.
“What more do you want of me r ’ she
asked.

“You know that the Cat has killed
two women r ’ I did not wait for her to
answer. “I think I know how to trap
the beast — so I can kill it. Then it

won’t be able to kill any more of your
people.”

Her eyes widened. “You want to
use me as bait?’ She had a sharp na-
tive shrewdness.

“Yes, but — ” I hurried on, “There
will be danger, of course; but Tm cer-
tain I can protect you.”

Some expression came into her face
that I was unable to interpret. “Re-
member, you don’t have to do it, if
you’re afraid,” I emphasized. “The
money is yours either way.”

“I will go with you,” she said.

It had been almost too easy. Was it
possible she might still think I loved
her r “I won’t be able to stay with you
afterward,” I did my best to disabuse
her of the idea. “After this is over I’ll
have to return to my own country.
You wouldn’t be happy there.”

“It’s all right. Baba Matti,” she
said. (It was a nickname meaning Red
Wolf, which the Kurds had given me
after I’d killed the horse guard and
Shefiq.) She put one hand on mine,
and I had to let it go at that.

I bought another bottle of wine,
and we returned to our room above
the tavern, and by the time we had
drunk half of it were in high good
spirits. We laughed and we sang, and
bathed each other in the room’s tin
tub, and afterward drank the rest of
the wine, and made love. We went to
sleep with our arms around each
other.

The next day I chose the site of my
trap very carefully — a tooth-shaped
rock about thirty feet high, that had
broken off from the cliff and landed
on end, leaving a passage between it
and the cliff wide enough for a large
man (or an agile cat) to pass through.

I returned to Gulchin, and we
made our plans, and when the first
night shadows began to fall I returned
to my tooth-rock. And I was ready for
(cont. on page 49)
29

DUEL

A. BERTRAM CHANDLER
DOGGY IN THE WINDOW

i "■

Kinsolving’s Planet was like no other planet — anywhere . . .

Illustrated by TONY GLEESON

During all mj? years as a Rim
Worlder and as an officer in Rim
Runners I’d never made a landing on
Kinsolving’s Planet; come to that, I’d
never come within extreme guided-
missile range of that world. Now, as a
naturalised Sirian and a captain in the
Dog Star Line, I was not only on Kin-
solving but stuck there. It shouldn’t
have happened to a dog.

I sat glumly in Basset's control
room, mulling things over in my
mind. Commodore Grimes sat with
me, presumably similarly employed,
although his main preoccupation
seemed to be keeping his vile pipe
alight. There was nothing that either
of us could do here, in the ship’s
nerve centre, but it was a refuge from
the others, from the incessant bom-
bardment of questions to which we
had no answers.

I looked out through the wide view-
ports. The time was late afternoon
and the peculiar quality of the sun-
light was making the yellows and
greens of the jungley landscape look
positively poisonous. And, I was sure,
the scenery did not look the same as
it had looked on the occasion of our
dawn landing the previous day. Bin-
dle, my Chief Officer, swore that he
had not shifted the ship during our
absence from her and I did not doubt
his word — but there were low hills

where no hills had been before and
the ruins that we could see in the dis-
tance looked nothing at all like the
crumbling, overgrown remains of En-
derston.

Grimes said, speaking around his
pipe, “It knows that we’re here. It
doesn’t mean to let us go ... ”

It was the world of Kinsolving it-
self, a planetary intelligence that,
somehow, had survived cycle after cy-
cle, that had retained Its identity
through death after death, rebirth
after rebirth of the universe. Or so
Grimes’ psionic communications
officer, Mayhew, the highly trained
and qualified telepath, had told us.

And what was I, no longer a Rim
Worlder, doing in the middle of this
essentially Rim Worlds meSs r I asked
myself. It was all right for the com-
modore and his people to get mixed
up in these affairs, but not for Basset
and her crew. If the Rim Worlds sur-
vey ship Faraway Quest hadn’t been
laid up ... If the Dog Star Line’s
Basset hadn’t come out to the Rim on
a tramping voyage and then found
herself temporarily unemployed
. . . If she hadn’t been chartered to
do the job that, normally, would have
been handled by faraway Quest, car-
rying Grimes and his small expedition
to Kinsolving ... If , if, if .. .

But we had been so chartered.

AMAZING

Then, very shortly after our landing
on Kinsolving, investigations had
been initiated in and about the weird
Temple of the Principle, the only
building in Enderston that, somehow,
had remained immune to the general
decay. Mayhew had fallen into (t),
through (1) the . . . altar (i), plunging
to . . . somewhere (i), somewhen (i).
Clarisse, Mayhew’s wife and fellow
psionicist, had followed him. We had
rescued them, using two deep sea
sounding machines — essentially

winches with many metres of piano
wire on their drums — that were items
of overcarried cargo, originally con-
signed to Atlantia. We had rescued
them but, in the process, seemed to
have dredged up the remote Past. Or
had we dragged ourselves back in
Time ?

Bassett was, of course, equipped
with Carlotti radio. Our transceiver
was powerful enough to put us into
direct communication, given iavour-
able conditions, with our home office
in Canis Major, let alone any of the
Rim Worlds. But our signals, al-
though being beamed with extreme
accuracy, did not seem to be getting
through. Certainly nothing was com-
ing through to us. And we should not
be able to keep up our attempts at
electronic communication for much
longer. What energy remained in our
power cells would have to be carefully
conserved.

The Carlotti system has, to a great
extent, replaced Psionic Communica-
tions but on most planets there are
still trained telepaths, most of them in
the employ of the armed forces of
their worlds. Mayhew had remained
in touch with his colleagues in the
Rim Worlds Navy until the landing on
Kinsolving. Now, he had reported to
Grimes, it was as though he had sud-
denly become a deaf mute. But it was

DOGGY IN THE WINDOW

a selective deafness and dumbness.
He could still communicate
wordlessly with Clarisse. He could
still pick up the thoughts of the rest
of us — although, in accordance with
the Rhine Institute’s Code of Ethics,
he was not supposed to. And he was
still conscious of the alien intelligence
that brooded somewhere in the heart
of the planet.

Meanwhile we were stranded. We
would have lifted, run for home —
assuming that home was still there —
but we were . . . stuck. There was
nothing at all wrong with our hydro-
gen fusion generator but, according to
my engineers, Canvey and Terrigal,
no power was getting through to the
inertial drive unit or to the firing
•chambers of the reaction drive, or
even to the ship’s auxiliary machin-
ery. They had talked learnedly of in-
duction and more abstruse matters —
but all that it boiled down to was that
we were being drained of every last
erg produced by the generator. As I
have said, we still had the power
cells — but their endurance was lim-
ited,

"It doesn’t mean to let us go,” said
Grimes again.

“And what are Its reasons?’ I
asked.

“I’ve only a human mind,” he said,
with a wry grin. “I can only guess
how a planetary intelligence would
think. From what Mayhew has told us
it seems to be a machine of some
sort, a super-robot. Perhaps it was
built, originally, by beings not unlike
ourselves. Then it got . . . uppity.
I’ve had experience with uppity
robots in the past — but never such an
enormous and enormously powerful
one. But It’s not a god.”

“Perhaps not, sir,” I agreed dubi-
ously. “But it’ll do until a real god
happens along.”

“Mphm,” he grunted. “You know,
Clcu-isse did raise real gods once, on
this very planet, the deities of the an-
cient Greek pantheon. Or were they
real f I’m not so sure now. Could they
have been manifestations of It, built
up from data extracted from our
memories? If that was the way of it,
then It has a sense of humour, and
that makes It all the more danger-
ous ...”

“Dangerous r’ I asked.

“Too right. Even we have a weak-
ness for black humour, and sick
humour. And practical jokes can be
very malicious. Practical jokes perpe-
trated by a bein^ with godlike powers
might be wildly funny to It, but fatal
to us.”

“Pratfalls can be fatal,” I agreed.

“You’ve hit the nail on the thumb,
George.” He looked at his watch.
“Your efficient purser should have the
afternoon tea laid on by now. Shall
we go down, or ask her to send ours
up here r ’

“Well go down,” I said. “Just to
show the flag ...”

TERNOON TEA was On in the
officers’ wardroom, a compartment
large enough to accommodate, with
not too much crowding, both ship’s
personnel and passengers. Everybody
was there. Porky Terrigal, the Reac-
tion Drive Engineer, was working out
his frustrations on a huge tray of the
sweet and savoury pastries that Sara
had produced. Nobody else was eat-
ing much and I gained the impression
that most of those present would have
preferred something much stronger to
drink than -the hot, innocuous brew
from the big silver pot. But we could
not afford the risk of taking anything
that would dull our perceptions, slow
our reaction times. Kinsolving was a
world on which anything might hap-

AMAZING

pen and probably would.

Dr. Thorne — bulky, bearded —
heaved himself up from his deep chair
as we entered. “Ah, Commodore
Grimes, Captain Rule ...” He
waved his cup vaguely in our direc-
tion and drops of tea spattered on to
the already stained shirt bulging
above his belt. “And may I — ^we — ask
if anything of consequence has
emerged from your deliberations r ’

“You may ask. Doctor,” replied
Grimes mildly. He accepted the cup
of tea that Sara Taine poured for him,
thanked her. He went to the small
settee on which Sonya, his wife, was
already seated, took his place beside
her.

“Well”’ demanded Thorne.

“You asked if you might ask,”
Grimes told him. “I gave my permis-
sion. So ask.”

The scientist glared at him, then
said, “Has anything of consequence
emerged from your deliberations r ’

“No,” said Grimes. “Meanwhile,
have any of you ladies and gentlemen
anything to contribute r ’

“We’ve tried rigging bypass cir-
cuits,” said Terrigal through a minor
blizzard of pastry crumbs, “but the
wires might as well have been solid
insulation. ”

“And I’ve taken the Carlotti trans-
ceiver down, checked every part, and
reassembled it,” stated Betty Boops,
the Radio Officer. “It should be work-
ing perfectly. But there just don’t
seem to be any stations to send to or
receive from.”

“Tonight, if the sky is clear,” said
Loran, Second Officer and navigator,
“I shall be able to observe the stars,
such as they are out here on the Rim.
Then I shall be able to determine if
there has been any shift in Space.”

“Or Space-Time,” said Sonya
sombrely. “John and I have been on

this world before. We’ve had ... ex-
periences.”

Time travel yet, D thought glumly.
Oh, I know that every time we use
the Mannschenn Drive to make an in-
terstellar passage it’s time travel of a
sort — but, at least, we don’t arrive be-
fore we’ve started . . .

“Ken r ’ asked Grimes, addressing
Mayhew.

The tall, wispy telepath started. His
thoughts had obviously been very far
away. “Oh. Yes. I was trying to get
some idea of the local fauna. This
place should be over-run with the de-
scendants of the Terran animals
brought here by the original colonists.
It was, when we landed yesterday.
Terran life forms. Our relations, not
too distant ones. I could . . . hear
them without any trouble. I know
what it feels like to be a rabbit. But
they aren’t here now. No pigs. No
rabbits. No hens. The life that is here
now I can’t get into. I can pick
up . . . feelings, primitive, on the
lowest level, but they’re too alien.
Fear, hunger, lust . . . But which is
which r ’

“And It? asked Grimes.

“It has closed Its mind to me. But I
know that It’s watching us.”

“Mphm,” Grimes grunted thought-
fully. Then he addressed Sara Taine.
“Miss Taine, is this ship habitable r ’

From the very start she had made
it obvious that Grimes was one of her
pets, but she flared angrily. “Of
course. Commodore '’

“Dr. Forbes r’

“As, among my other duties, bio-
chemist I must reply in the affirma-
tive, sir.” Forbes looked so miserable
that I should not have been surprised
if he had said that Basset was no more
than an ^nteroom to the grave — but
Forbes always looked miserable.

“Mr. Canveyr Mr. Terrigal r’

DOGGY IN THE WINDOW

Porky Terrigal answered, “All of
our auxiliary machinery is working
perfectly. Commodore, even if the
drives aren’t.”

“From the power cells, of course.”

“Of course. ”

It was Bindle, the chief officer, who
realised suddenly what Grimes was
driving at. He said, “And once the
cells are dead, so is the ship.”

“So,” stated Grimes, “we must do
our utmost to conserve electricity. To
begin with, ventilation. I’m afraid I
must ask you. Captain Rule, to have a
few holes cut in the skin of your
ship.” He read my expression without
difficulty. “Don’t worry. The charter-
ers will make good any and all dam-
age.”

I said stiffly, “I don’t see the neces-
sity for piercing the shell. Commo-
dore Grimes. With the airlock door
open and the cargo ports we shall
have through ventilation.”

“Shall wer’ he asked. “The way I
see it, none at all through the forward
part of the ship, where we need it
most. We don’t sleep in the
storerooms, cargo holds and engine
. spaces, you know. Too, open cargo
ports would be an invitation to any-
thing large and nasty to walk, crawl or
fly in.”

“An electric defense and alarm sys-
tem ...” began Bindle.

“Power-consuming,” said Grimes.
He turned back to me. “I suggest a
conventional, trimmable cowl-type
ventilator at control room level. It
will have to be so designed that the
shaft can be sealed quickly if and
when we are able to get upstairs.”

“Cutting holes in the shell plating
will consume power,” I told him, en-
joying my feeble triumph, although
not for long.

“Yes, Captain, it will. But sooner or
later the cells are going to be drained.

anyhow, and we might well be stuck
on this world for a very long time.”
Then he asked suddenly, addressing
Basset’s ship’s company in general,
“Do you Sirians go in for barbecues r ’

“Of course,” answered at least four
people, not quite achieving syn-
chronisation.”

“Good. As and from breakfast to-
morrow all meals, with the exception
of dinner, will be cooked outside. The
evening meal will be a cold one, start-
ing tonight if Miss Taine has the
materials.”

“Why r ’ she asked.

“Because I don’t want a fire after
sunset that might attract nocturnal
predators. Come to that, I don’t want
any lights showing outside the ship,
for the same reason.” He got to his
feet and addressed us all. “We’ll
spend the remaining hours of daylight
preparing ourselves for a long stay.
And we’ll start conserving power right
now, by switching off every non-
essential light strip. With a bit of luck
we shall have the back of the job bro-
ken before dark, and in the morning
we’ll go to the city and see if that
temple is still there.”

“I was afraid that you were going to
suggest that,” said Sonya.

I didn’t sleep at all well that night.

The ship was too quiet. I missed
the sussurus of the forced ventilation,
the occasional sob and whine of a
pump. And I was conscious of the
alien smells — of night-blooming flow-
ers, of rotting vegetation — that drifted
through our alleyways, eddied
through the open doors of our cabins.
In one way the unfamiliar aromas
were reassuring, however. They were
evidence that the officer of the watch
was alert and, in addition to keeping a
lookout, was trimming the ventilator
on to the shifting breeze. The main

AMAZING

cause of my insomnia, however, was
worry. I had allowed my ship to be
made unspaceworthy. Her shell had
been pierced, was no longer airtight.

I had been assured by my engineers
that an hour’s work, at the outside,
would suffice to restore the integrity
of the hull, but I still didn’t like it.
Apart from anything else, such work
should be carried out to the require-
ments and satisfaction of a Lloyd’s
surveyor — and where was such an
official to be found on Kinsolving r

Some time in the small hours I took
a long, hard look at myself and found
the spectacle amusing. Often in the
past, before I attained command, I
had laughed at shipmasters whose
main exercise of the imagination was
to find something to worry about.
And there was enough to worry about
without dragging Lloyd’s of London
into it.

I dropped off then, and it seemed
that I was almost immediately
awakened by Sara. She was bearing
not the usual tea tray but a glass of
some fruit juice, unchilled. She told
me, “The kettle’s boiling outside,
George. If you want tea you’ll have to
take your place in the queue by the
fire.”

I said, “This will do. But it could
be colder.”

She said, “The refrigerator con-
sumes power. It must be used as little
as possible.”

The refrigerator was not the only
power-consuming equipment in the
ship. My morning shower was cold. I
like a cold shower when I happen to
want one, which is rarely. This was
not one of those occasions. I was in a
rather bad temper when I joined the
others by the fire a few metres from
the airlock. But I enjoyed my
breakfast — a slab of steak grilled on a
steel plate over the hot coals, a mug

of tea that had acquired a pleasantly
unfamiliar smoky tang. This sort of
living would be very nice until the
novelty wore off.

Both boats — our own lifeboat and
the pinnace that was on loan from the
Rim Worlds Navy — were inoperative.
Each of the small craft had its own
hydrogen fusion power unit, and each
of these units behaved in the same
inexplicable manner as the big one in
the ship. Power was being generated
but just wasn’t getting as far as the
boats’ inertial drive or even, in the
case of the Rim Worlds Navy pinnace,
as far as the laser cannon.

So, if we wished to revisit the city,
we should have to walk. To revisit the
city f As I have said, it didn’t look the
same as it had done. It looked further
away than it had been. Unluckily the
night had been overcast, so Loran had
been unable to make any astronomical
observations. We knew only that we
were on Kinsolving. We did not know
where or when Kinsolving was now.
Perhaps, in the city, we should find
out.

A party was organised. Grimes, of
course, was the leader. Sonya was
with him. Reluctantly Dr. Thorne and
his wife decided to stay with the ship.
The scientist was a realist and knew
that he was not fit enough for the
march through the jungle. I thought
myself that Rose Thorne could have
coped — she was one of those wispy
little women who’re fantastically
tough under their seemingly frail
exteriors — but she was loyal to her
husband. Bill Smith and Susan How-
ard were to represent the scientists.
They looked fit enough, both of them,
in their mousy way. Ken Mayhew was
in the party but Clarisse was staying
aboard Basset. This would ensure that
we were in psionic contact at all times

DOGGY IN THE WINDOW

with our base. I was going along,
much to Bindle’s disgust. He com-
plained that he had been confined to
the ship ever since the landing. I told
him that there must be somebody
there capable and qualified to take
command during my absence. Finally
Sara, our weapons expert, completed
the party. Her accurate shooting had
saved us all when, with one short
burst, she had severed the wire that
tethered us to a dimension where we
did not belong.

(As a matter of fact she had told
me, in confidence, that her shooting
had not been all that marvellous.
“Imagine a pistol range,” she said.
“Imagine a standard target, complete
with bull’s eye. You’re trying to hit
the bull. To use big gun phraeology
you’re having to both lay and train.
Then you have the card set up
edgewise to you. You split it. Ev-
erybody thinks it’s marvellous shoot-
ing. But it’s not — because you don’t
have to worry about gunlaying. Train-
ing is all that counts . . . ”)

So we set out. Luckily we had laid
in a stock, as recommended by
Grimes, of tough drill clothing and
heavy boots before lifting off from
Port Forlorn. Luckily we had loaded
all sorts of other equipment that I, in
my innocence, had thought that we
should never need. But Tm a mer-
chant spaceman, pure and simple,
whereas Grimes had been brought up
in the Federation Survey Service.
The FSS, in spite of its name, is more
of a fighting navy than anything else
but its personnel are, now and again,
required to do actual survey work
such as exploration. So we had
machetes for hacking our way through
the jungle and magnetic compasses to
ensure that we hacked away in the
right direction.

Before starting out we took a care-

ful bearing of the city from the con-
trol room. Grimes noted that a prom-
inent tree that we should be able to
see from ground level was on this line
of sight. Then, standing directly
below the ship, he took another bear-,
ing of this tree. I asked him why he
was doing this.

He replied, ‘There’s such a thing
as magnetic deviation, George. In the
control room our compasses were af-
fected by all manner of fields, some
permanent, some residual. Outside
the ship the effect is not so great —
although I hopye that it’s not enough
to throw us out too badly ...”

We set off. Grimes in the lead,
holding his compass. Bill Smith and
Susan Howard, wielding machetes
almost expertly. Now and again he
would pause to let the two young sci-
entists go ahead to clear a way. Sonya
and myself, sub-machine guns cocked
and ready, followed. Then came Ken
Mayhew — armed, but with his
weapon slung — and Sara Taine, her
automatic carbine in her capable
hands. We had one laser pistol, car-
ried by Grimes in a holster, but it
was not to be used unless it was abso-
lutely essential. We did not know
when, if ever, we should be able to
recharge its power cell. (Come to
that, when our ammunition for the
projectile weapons was exhausted
there would be no way of replacing
it. The commodore had already
suggested to the engineers that they
might try to manufacture some ar-
balests . . . )

It was hot under the trees, hot and
damp. We were ankle-deep in' de-
cayed vegetation that squelched un-
pleasantly as we walked. The trees
were . . . trees. I’m no botanist.
Their tall, straight trunks, exploding
many metres above ground level into
clouds of green and yellow foliage.

AMAZING

were obscured by broad-leaved,
sharp-spined creepers that, stretching
horizontally between the trees,
formed a natural barbed wire entan-
glement. We did not see any large
animal life although we heard things
scuttling in the undergrowth. There
were flying things — insects r — but
they did not come near us. There was
something else — reptile r mammal r —
that could almost have been a scale
model of an ancient biplane. We were
not able to make a close examination
of it, nor did we much wish to.

We pressed on, sweating profusely.
After a while Sonya and I relieved
Bill Smith and Susan Howard at the
head of our little column. Grimes, as
navigator, was exempt from machete
work. Mayhew, as our psionic look-
out, was likewise exempt. So was
Sara; if there were any chopping to be
done with a sub-machine gun she was
the one best qualified to do it. I soon
began to wish that I too was exempt
from the manual work. Those strands
of creeper not only looked like barbed
wire, they were almost as tough. We
should have brought along a
whetstone. I said as much to the
commodore. He grunted, muttering
that a man cannot think of everything.
His wife — her hands were as blistered
as mine — told him tartly that to think
of everything was his job. He made
no reply.

At last we became aware that the
trees were thinning out. More direct
sunlight was striking through the high
foliage and there were quite long
stretches not obstructed by that infer-
nal, thorny creeper. Too, the ground
was drier underfoot and the dead
leaves were crackling rather than
squelching. Under the leaves was a
hard surface. We paused and Sonya
and I squatted, clearing the dead
vegetation away with our hands. What

we uncovered was, we decided at
length, artificial — but old, very old. A
sort of concrete it could have been,
weathered and stained with exuda-
tions. It was a dirty yellow rather
than grey.

“Follow the yellow brick road,” said
Grimes. He was obviously quoting
from some work unfamiliar to me.
Sonya and Mayhew rewarded him
with a small burst of laughter. He
sang untunefully, “We’re off to see
the Wizard ...” There was more
laughter while Sara, the two young
scientists and myself looked at him
uncomprehendingly.

We marched on. It was not hard to
follow the road. It was almost an av-
enue. with the tall trees on either
side of it. Had it been straight we
should have seen the city long before
we did. The first sight we had of it as
we rounded a wide bend was a lofty
tower, a structure that must have
been loftier still before its upper
levels had crumbled, had fallen to a
heap of rubble around its base. There
were more towers, a vista of them be-
fore us. None was intact. They were
like guttered candles, their flames
long extinguished. This was, I re-
alised, the city that we had seen, but
briefly, when making our escape
from the temple.

Guttered candles . . .

The towers on the outskirts of the
city had been smashed, those towards
the centre had been . . . melted. As
we walked along the radial street,
surpisingly free of vegetation, we re-
alised that the heat, whatever had
caused it, had been of greater inten-
sity towards the centre of the town.
I’m a merchant spaceman but I’m also
a naval reserve officer. I know some-
thing about weapons. I’ve taken all
the required courses, seen the films. I
didn’t have to ask Grimes what de-

DOGGY IN THE WINDOW

structive agent had been unloosed
here — how long ago ? Already I’d have
been willing to predict what we
would find at ground zero. I did not
think that it would have been dam-
aged by blast or radiation.

We marched on.

Apart from half melted rubble from
the towers the streets — the ringroads
and the radial thoroughfares — were
remarkably free of debris. There were
not, as there had been in that other
city in this place, our city, the carcas-
ses of long-abandoned vehicles.
Grimes suggested that we investigate
one of the towers before we pressed
on further. We did so, entering cau-
tiously through an open door that ob-
viously had not been designed for use
by beings even remotely human. It
was too low, too wide. The beams of
our torches augmented the daylight
that seeped through the dust-
encrusted windows. The ground level
seemed to be no more than a sort of
vestibule. In the centre of it was a
group of statuary. Possibly it had once
been an ornamental fountain. Two
many-limbed beings were locked
either in combat or copulation. They
were, Mayhew told us, like the dead
arthropod that he and Clarisse had
found in that weird cavern at the
heart of the planet, that we had tried
to drag out and up with one of the
sounding machines. Statues of the
beings who had built — and
destroyed r — this city, or of familiar or
mythological animals r (Alien travellers
coming upon some long-deserted
human city might assume, from the
evidence of statuary in public places,
that such beings as mermaids and
mermen actually once existed.)

“These were the people,” said
Mayhew slowly. “Arthropods, like
giant Terran crabs. But that should
not be surprising. After all we, in our

universe, are familiar enough with the
Shaara. And they’re arthropods.”

Grimes said, “It’s easy to accept the
idea of bee-like beings building up a
technological civilisation. But crabs or
lobsters ...”

“Why notr’ asked .Mayhew. He
shone the beam of his torch on to one
of the statues. “Look at the way in
which these forelimbs terminate in
handling' tools — some for coarse,
heavy work, some for the most deli-
cate operations. Everything from
shifting spanners ...” the light
shifted . . . “to micrometers. One
hand — if I may call it a hand — for
building a steam engine, another for
repairing a lady’s watch ...”

“Mphm,” grunted Grimes. “And do
you feel anything, Kenr Did these be-
ings leave any . . . record r
Any . . . ghosts, like the ghost that
George saw in the city, the other city,
the first time r ’

“They may have done, John — but I
can’t . . . receive. How shall I put it r
It’s like expecting a Carlotti receiver
to pick up a Normal Space Time
transmission, or the other way round.
This place was lived in, once. I can
tell you that much. But it was so long
Ago that the . . . records have faded,
and even if they hadn’t ...”

We looked at the statues a little
while longer. The group compelled
interest but it was not the sort of
thing I’d have liked to have lived
with. And then we went slowly up
the ramp that, following the curvature
of the inner wall, took us up to the
next level. There were living quarters
there. There was furniture that might,
conceivably, have been beds and
chairs. There were what could have
been bathrooms — or kitchens. There
was one room that could have been a
playroom or a workroom, and in this,
on a low table, was a beautiful ship

AMAZING

model. It was a greatly scaled down
replica of the airship that we had
seen, a little less than a metre in
length, a cylinder, hemispherical at
its ends, with a profusion of vanes
protruding at odd angles, with what
could have been gun turrets.

We took photographs — I should
dearly have loved to have taken that air-
ship model and not merely its pic-
ture, but we were already loaded with
weapons and other equipment — and
then made our way out of the ruined
tower and continued pur march to the
city centre. We did not have much
time to spare; the sun was approach-
ing the meridian and we were deter-
mined to be back aboard Basset be-
fore dark.

The commodore had put his com-
pass away. Mayhew was now our di-
rection finder. He was homing on the
temple — or whatever form it had as-
sumed in this otherwhen universe.

We found it without difficulty. It
was as we had seen it before — a fea-
tureless, subtly distorted cube. It
stood by itself, at the intersection of
imaginary diagonals drawn between
four towers — or what had, once, been
towers. Now they were little more
than shapeless mounds of slag. Not far
from the building was a little pile of
bright, twisted metal. It looked
somehow famifiar. We walked to it
cautiously, inspected it. It was the
wreckage of one of the sounding
machines that we had used to rescue
Ken and Clarisse. It was the one that
the boat had dragged up from the roof
of the temple by the power lead. A
length of insulated cable was still
plugged into it, and from the winch
drum extended a tangle of piano wire.

But the door of the temple was no
longer rectangular but more nearly an
ellipse. And the lettering over it was
in no familiar script but an inde-

cipherable scrawl. It looked, I
thought, like the record left by the
claws of a crustacean on damp sand.

“Here’s your sounding machine,
George,” said Grimes. “Or one of

them. I wonder if the other one is
still on the roof ...”

“If we could get there we could
find out,” I said shortly. There was no
way of scaling those featureless walls.

“We can go inside the temple,”
said Grimes.

“Do we want tor’ asked Sonya
sharply.

“What did we come out here forr’
he countered. Then, to Mayhew,
“Ken, do you feel anything now?’

“No more than before,” replied the
telepath. “It is aware that we are
here. What Its intentions are I cannot
say.”

We went to the door. We pushed
it. It showed no signs of giving. And
then somebody thought of applying a
sidewise pressure. The panel moved

then, reluctantly at first and then eas-
ily, sliding clear of the oval opening.
We entered the temple.

There was light of a sort in the
huge, windowless room, a grey, shift-
ing twilight. As before there was the
wrongness of the angles where wall
met wall, ceiling and floor. There was
the distortion of Space, of Space-
Time. When we spoke it was like
being inside an echo chamber — not
that any of us did much speaking.
The . . . the altar was still there — but
why should it not have been? The
altar — coffin or tesseract, or both,
shining wanly with a light that, some-
how, was not light, a dead, ashy
radiance.

But there were changes. The shape
of the door, and the inscription over
it. And the hole that we had cut in
the roof was no longer there, and
there were no marks on the smooth

DOGGY IN THE WINDOW

ceiling to show that it ever had been.
(In this Time and Space it never had
been.)

“What now r ’ asked Sonya.

“What now r ’ repeated Grimes.
“Well, I suppose we find out if
the . . . altar is still functioning.” He
asked sardonically, "Any volunteers r
Nor Then can somebody spare some-
thing that we can throw into the
gateway to the interior”’

“Your pipe,” suggested his wife.

He said, “I was brought up never
make sacrifices to strange gods. And
that would be a sacrifice . . . talking
of sacrifices — any virgins among those
present

Susan Howard blushed painfully.
Sonya said sharply, “That wasn’t
funny, John.”

“My apologies. .Miss Howard.”
Grimes could turn on the charm
when he wanted to. “Believe me, I
had no idea ...”

Grimes had opened his pack, taken
from it the little parcel of sandwiches
that was to be his midday meal. He
said, “And now I must apologise to
you, Sara. But I can spare one of
these dainties; since I have been
aboard Basset I have been eating too
much. Which shall it be r The cheese,
I think ...”

He tossed the little square of filled
bread into the tesseract. It faded, van-
ished.

“So ...” he murmured.

“What now?’ demanded Sonya.

“We go outside, sit down, enjoy
our lunch, and then return to the
ship.”

“You mean to say that we’ve come
all this way just to watch you waste
good food r ’

“We must be back before dark, my
dear. Our expedition has not been al-
together fruitless. We know that we
have suffered dimensional displace-

ment. We know that the temple still
exists, and that the gateway to If is
still open.”

“And we know that It likes cheese
sandwiches,” said Sara. “At least. It
didn’t spit out the one you fed
it ... ”

We all laughed. There was precious
little to laugh about so we made the
best of what we had.

We left the temple. We sat down
on the ground a respectable distance
from the building, made a sketchy
meal of sandwiches and coffee from
our vacuum flasks. When we had
finished I walked over to the twisted
wreckage of the sounding machine. It
looked as though somebody had tried
to turn it inside out, not altogether
unsuccessfully. Suppose that this had
happened to us ... I thought. But it
hadn’t, so why worry about it r
Or — the idea sent a cold chill down
my spine — perhaps if had, and we
didn’t know about it, whereas that
metallic tangle would look the way it
had looked in our universe . . .

Then the others got to their feet
and we started the march back to the
ship. I hoped that she would still be
where we had left her. Mayhew,
reading my thoughts, assured me that
she would be.

E CAME to the outskirts of the
city, to the tower that we had entered
earlier. I said to Grimes, “Wait a
couple of minutes, Gommodore.”

“What for r ’ he asked.

“That airship— or spaceship —
model. I’m going to pick it up. I think
that we should examine it properly
when we get back to Basset.”

He said, “You’ll be carrying it. It’s
your idea, so you do the work.” He
relented slightly. “If it’s too heavy
we’ll distribute your other bits and
pieces among the rest of us.”

AMAZING

Sara accompanied me into the
building. She hadn’t fired a shot all
day and was, I was sure, hoping that
something would spring out at us
from the shadows. She was disap-
pointed. I was not. The beautiful little
ship model was where we had last
seen it. (There was no reason why it
shouldn’t have been, but on Kinsolv-
ing one takes nothing for granted.) I
picked it up. It was heavy, too
damned heavy. Holding it carefully in
my arms I made my way down the
ramp, followed by Sara. It seemed to
me that it was not so heavy as it had
first been and assumed that it was be-
cause I had adjusted to the weight
and the awkwardness. When I was
outside the others gathered round to
look at it, to admire it. It gleamed
brightly in the sunlight, its vanes like
metal mirrors. There was surprisingly
little dust Qu it^

“It could almost be a lightjammer,”
said Grimes at last. “If the sails were
larger ...”

“Lightjammer or not,” I quipped,
“it’s certainly not light ...”

But wasn’t it f There was almost no
strain on my arms now. And what was
that vibration that I could feelr What
was the almost inaudible hum that I
could hear? And was I the only one
hearing itf Somehow it reminded me
of being in the control room of a ship,
listening to the quiet song of her
machinery, main and auxiliary, con-
scious that the vessel was part of me,
no more (and no less) than an exten-
sion of my own body. A touch of a
finger, and she would lift . . .

She lifted.

I was as amazed as the others. I
stood there, mouth open, gazing at
the glittering machine rising slowly
into the' clear sky.

“Captain Rule,” said Mayhew sharp-
ly, “bring it back.”

"But how, Ken r How r ’

“The same way that you got it up,”
he told me. “You’re in a control
room. Your control room. You are the
ship. The ship is you ...”

Fantastically I was looking down at
the group outside the ruined tower,
on the fnnge of the jungle. I could
see my own face among the upturned
visages. And that was my marker
beacon for the landing. I came down
slowly, carefully; T hadn't got the feel
of this vessel yet but knew that distor-
tion of the vanes would reduce their
power-collecting efficiency. Where
that knowledge came from I did not
know. It was just there. I was more
concerned about the possibility of
damage to the ship than to myself,
notwithstanding the fact that my body
was the target that I was aiming for.

The little ship settled gently into
my outstretched arms. A nice piece of
pilotage, I thought smugly.

And then I stared at the thing that
I was holding like a baby. What the
hell was happening? And what was I
doing, and how the hell was I doing
it? Was this model a toy, a robot toy,
at least partly sentient?

“Not a toy,” said Mayhew. “Not a
toy, but a simulator ...”

“A simulator?’

■Mayhew laughed softly. “Yes. And
you. Captain, were the first spaceman
with whom its been in contact for the
Odd Gods of the Galaxy alone know
how many millenia. You’ve heard of
imprinting ?’

“Of course. But this is a . . .
machine, not an animal.”

"And aren't animals machines?’
countered Mayhew. “Including our-
selves.”

This was cheating, I thought. It was
the sort of argument that one might
expect from a materialist, but not
from one whose profession, to many

DOGGY IN THE WINDOW

people, smacked of the supernatural.

“So the builders of this city were,
in some ways, more advanced than
ourselves,” said Grimes. “So they
could control their machines directly
by thought . . . Mphm. I wonder if
that thing will take my orders . . . I’m
a shipmaster, like you, so there
should be some affinity ...”

He stared at the ship model, scowl-
ing with concentration. “Lift,” I heard
him mutter. “Lift!"

Nothing happened.

Sonya tried, then Sara, then the
two young scientists, and finally
Mayhew. The model stayed snugly in
my arms. After they had all given up
I sent the thing aloft, drove it around
above our heads in a tight circle,
made it dive and soar and, finally,
hover.

"It’s your pet,” Grimes admitted.
“It’s your . . . doggy.”

“It’s a pity,” said Sonya, “that the
engineers will have to take it to
pieces to see what makes it tick.”

“Why should they r ’ I demanded.

She said, “It’s obvious that, some-
how, this toy converts radiation into
power, usable power. Anti-gravity,
perhaps. And power is just what we
need right now.”

I said, “And if my ham-handed
mechanics ruin this machine without
finding out what makes it work — don’t
forget that I know them better than
you do — we shall be no better off
than we are now. On the other hand,
if we keep it intact we shall have a
means of lugging supplies from the
ship to wherever we need them.
I ... I feel, somehow, that it will be
capable of lifting quite a big weight.”

“Mphm,” grunted Grimes.
“Perhaps we can find out right now
just what it can do.”

“No,” I said. “That will have to
wait until we get back to the ship.

The engineers will have to make some
sort of harness that will fit around the
hull without damaging, or even touch-
ing the vanes. Don’t ask me how I
know — I just do — but those surfaces
must be at exact angles each to the
other.”

“Oh, well,” said Grimes, “at least
you won’t have to carry it back to the
ship. So you can have your rifle and
machete back ...”

But there was one consolation. As I
was fully occupied during the march
in steering the model through the
forest — I kept it below treetop
level — I was exempt from the task of
hacking a way through the under-
growth. We had expected that this
would not be necessary, that we
would be able to keep to the path
that we had cleared on our way out to
the city, but those vines, in a few
hours, had repaired the damage that
we had inflicted upon them. The sev-
ered ends had reunited themselves.
The tangle was even worse than it
had been before.

Wk GOT BACK to the ship just be-
fore sunset. The others already knew
what we had done and seen; .Mayhew
had been in contact with Clarisse
throughout and she had passed on the
information.

They were all eager to see the
model flying machine — and were all
disappointed to discover that it could
be handled by nobody except myself
The engineers, of course, were itch-
ing to get their greasy paws on to it,
into it. Grimes and I told them that it
was too potentially valuable to us to
risk its being rendered inoperative by
clueless tampering. If they wanted to
do something useful, I said, they
could make a sort of harness to fit
around its fuselage, the straps of
which must not make even the

AMAZING

slightest contact with any of the
vanes.

I put the model, the simulator,
through its paces in front of an admir-
ing, (possibly) and envious (definitely)
audience. I had really gotten the feel
of it during our march back from the
city. I wished that I had a real ship to
play with this way. In such a vessel
pilotage would be unalloyed plea-
sure . . .

Inevitably the thing acquired a
name — two names, in fact. It was
Bindle who referred to it as a winged
wurst. It had never occurred to me
until then that the hull was sausage
shaped. And Betty Boops called it
“the captain’s doggy”. It wasn’t long
before some genius came up with a
new verse to the Dog Star Line’s an-
them which everybody had to sing,
with the usual arf, arfl accompani-
ment.

How much is that doggy in the
window?

It looks like a sort of a wurst;

You can’t have that doggy in the
window.

Because the Old Man saw it first!

Very funny, I thought. Very funny.
But they were jealous, that was all.

We had our evening meal and then
I put my doggy through more trials in
the darkness. It functioned as well as
it had done in broad daylight. Either
it had very efficient storage batteries
or there was enough radiation, even
from the night sky of the Rim, to
keep it going. The two engineers
watched wistfully. I decided that, to
be on the safe side, I would take my
pet to bed with me.

The next morning we set out early.
The party was as before but we had
an easier time of it; the harness that
the engineers had devised from wires
and webbing allowed us to hang most
of our equipment from the little ship.

It looked absurd — imagine a balloon
with a basket far larger than the
gasbag — but it worked. And we knew,
having made the experiment, that the
machine could lift two people to-
gether with their equipment. One of
those persons would have to be
me — the captain’s doggy was a one
man dog — and the other was to be
Sara. It was possible that some fast
and accurate shooting might be neces-
sary.

We hacked our way through that
blasted jungle again. Sonya remarked
that it was a pity that I had not found
a robot bulldozer. We came at last to
the city. We ignored the ruined tow-
ers, went straight to the temple. I
brought my doggy to ground level
and we unloaded the equipment.
Then I arranged the dangling slings to
form a sort of seat and went for my
first flight. It was very little different
from the other flights that I had han-
dled from ground level. I
just . . . thought myself into the air,
just thought myself to the roof of the
temple. It was very little different,
after all, from handling a big ship, ex-
cept that I wasn’t haNing to use- my
hands to actuate the controls on a
panel. I didn’t bother to land on the
rooftop, just hovered over it. The
smooth surface was unmarked. There
was no sign of the other sounding
machine. But it didn’t matter. We
now had something far better than
those primitive winches.

I returned to the ground, extricated
myself from the harness.

We walked into the temple. I
brought my doggy in after us. We
looked at the altar. Grimes asked,
“Are you sure that you don’t mind
risking it, George r ’

I didn’t feel especially heroic, but
somebody (I supposed) had to go
down to where Mayhew and Clarisse

DOGGY IN THE WINDOW

had gone. Somebody had to try to
find out what made this planet tick.
The only reason why it had to be me
was that I was the only one with con-
trol over a means of trans^rtation.

Sara and I assembled rte pieces of
equipment that we should need. A
sound-powered telephone, with a suf-
ficiency of wire. Two powerful
torches. A laser pistol each. A projec-
tile pistol for myself, a sub-machine
gun for Sara. Ammunition. A camera.
Food pellets. (I hated the things, but
they were easily portable nourishment
should it be required.) Water flasks.

Hung around with gear like
Christmas trees we strapped ourselves
into the harness. I must confess that I
rather enjoyed this forced close bodily
contact with Sara. She seemed to read
my thoughts, murmured,
“George ... At last !’

I said, “Secure all for lift off!’

She replied, “All secure, captain.”

Grimes said, “No heroics, George.
If you’re at all in doubt, get the hell
out "

“He’s a poet and doesn’t know it,”
quipped Sonya.

Then, obedient to my unspoken
command, the little ship lifted, raising
us from the floor. I looked up, was re-
lieved to see that there was still
ample clearance between it and the
roof of the temple. I applied lateral
thrust and we drifted slowly over the
altar, then hovered. I looked down. If
I hadn’t been an experienced space-
man I’d have changed my mind about
making the descent. It was like —
much too like — space as seen from
the viewports of a ship running under
Mannschenn Drive. There was the
slowly shifting . . . formlessness, the
darkness that was deeper than dark-
ness should ever be, the ultimate
night.

“Ready r ’ I asked Sara.

“Ready,” she whispered.

We dropped slowly.

Grimes and Sonya, Mayhew and
Bill and Susan, stood there, watching
us go. They looked like reflections of
themselves in the distorting mirrors of
a fiin fair, but not at all funny. Their
greatly elongated bodies wavered like
candle flames in a draught, shim-
mered and faded. Grimes raised his
hand and his arm seemed to stretch
to an impossible length. Sonya said
something and her voice was no more
than a faraway sighing, long drawn
out, like wind soughing drearily over
a field of rocks and snow.

Then they were gone.

They were gone, whirled away into
the far distance, fading, diminishing,
tumbling down and through the dark
dimensions. They were gone — but
we, ourselves, did not seem to be
moving. Around us was nothingness,
but I sensed the fast approach of so-
lidity from below. I realised that the
model was equipped with the same
sensory devices — radar f — as a

fullsized ship, and that those sensors
were . . . mine.

I slowed our rate of descent so that
we were falling gently as a feather.
My boot soles made gentle contant
with a hard surface. I said, “We’re
here.”

Sara complained, “You may be, but
I’m not. Even when I stretch my toes
are only just touching.”

I brought the doggy down a few
more centimetres.

Mayhew had told us of a vast
chamber with shifting, pulsing lights.
And that is where we were. Stalac-
tites and stalagmites of iridescence
were its pillars and its roof was one
enormous rainbow, the colours of
which swept in steady procession up
from the far distance to one side of
us, setting in the far distance to the

AMAZING

other. You know those coin-in-the-slot
synthesisers that provide music in
some taverns? That was the general
effect. Mayhew and Clarisse, being in
direct telepathic contact with the
godlike planetary intelligence, had
been awed. Sara and I, non-telepaths,
were awed too — but mingled with our
awe was a touch of contempt for the
gaudiness, the . . . kitsch of it all.

“Not very neat,” she whispered,
“but definitely gaudy.”

We looked around us. There, and
there, and there were the dessicated
bodies of the explorers who had
perished here from time to time in
the past, a Past so' remote that it was
unimaginable. There were the cen-
tauroid beings. There were other
things that were more or less human.
There was the arthropod, like a huge
crab, like the creatures which had
been immortalised in enduring metal
in that group of statuary. Attached to
it was a bright, tangled filament,
piano wire, the sounding machine line
by which we had tried to drag it to
the surface.

A voice sounded in the single re-
ceiver of my headset. “George! Are
you all right r Report, please. ”

“We’re all right. Commodore,” I
replied. “We’re in the cave described
by Ken. There are the lights, and the
bodies. How much wire have you for
the telephone? We shall, want to
move around.”

He said, “We can splice on at least
another kilometre if we have to. Keep
on reporting, will you 7’

“Wilco,” I said.

I thought of unbuckling Sara and
myself from the harness so that we
could continue our exploration on
foot, then decided against it. We
would be able to cover a far greater
distance in far less time using my
doggy. Obedient to my unspoken

command it lifted us clear of the floor
of the cave, flew towards a pillar of
pulsing light that seemed, somehow,
to be an important part of
the . . . machinery ? I don’t know why
I thought that it was important, it was
just a hunch. But when you’ve been
using machines of various kinds all
your life you develop a feel for them,
even when you’re not an engineer.
And the first saboteurs must have
known, instinctively, just where in
the works to throw their wooden
shoes to cause the maximum disrup-
tion.

Grimes spoke to me again. “Be
careful,” he said. “Ken tells me that
It knows that you’re down there. It’s
puzzled. It can’t read your mind the
same way that it read Ken’s.”

I said, “My nose fair bleeds for It.”

We drifted slowly over the long-
dead bodies. I paused above two of
the humanoids. Before they dried out
they must have been very like our-
selves, I thought. Their faces were
upturned; their expressions seemed to
change, their limbs to stir under the
continually shifting lights. Humanoid?
Human, rather. A man and a woman,
who must have been handsome before
the skin was stretched so tightly over
their bones. How long ago had they
died ? How had they died ?

Reluctantly I came in to a landing.
Sara and I unbuckled ourselves from
the harness. The doggy hung there,
humming faintly, like a faithful hound
awaiting orders. We walked slowly
towards the bodies. I knelt beside
that of the man, pulled what was a
weapon of some kind from the holster
at his wide belt of metal mesh. It was
a pistol, although not a projectile
weapon. I found the firing stud and,
foolishly, pressed it. Nothing hap-
pened, of course. Its power cell was
very dead.

DOGGY IN THE WINDOW

Sara removed a bracelet from the
woman’s wrist. She said, “This is like
grave-robbing, but ...” Then, “This
must be a watch . . . There’s a dial,
but blank. And a stud that you
press . . . And nothing happens.”

“Batteries have a limited life span,”
I said. “Even when they’re not being
used, there’s leakage. H’m. These
people had a level of technology not
dissimilar to our own. Their clothing
could be plastic ...” Both man and
woman were wearing kilt and shirt,
dull green in colour, heavy sandals. I
lifted the hem of the man’s kilt, rub-
bed it between my fingers. The mate-
rial crumbled to a fine powder.

“Not dissimilar,” agreed Sara, “and
certainly not superior. I, for one,
wouldn’t like to walk around not
knowing when I was going to do an
involuntary strip act.”

‘This stuff is old.” I told her.

“So’s Doggy old, but she’s function-
ing well enough.”

“She’s metal,” I said.

“Metal, shmetal,” she sneered.

“What are you arguing about?’ de-
manded Grimes. He could hear my
voice, of course, through the throat
microphone but was getting only one
side of the conversation.

I made a brief report.

“Get photographs,” he ordered.
“Clothed, then unclothed.”

“You want us to strip the corpses?’
I asked, shocked.

“They won’t mind,” he said callous-

“I’m not some sort of ghoul, or nec-
rophiliac, Commodore,” I protested.

‘This is a scientific expedition,” he
said.

“I’m not a scientist,” I told him.

“You’re under charter to a scientific
expedition. Captain Rule. And the
terms of the charter party, which you
signed, require that you render every

assistance to the scientists.”

He was right, of course. I told Sara
what he wanted and we got the first
of the photographs. ■ Then we set
about the distasteful task’ that I
couldn’t help thinking of as desecre-
tion, Sara removing the woman’s cloth-
ing, myself the man’s. Fortunately
there was very little handling in-
volved; the plastic material disinte-
grated at a touch, leaving only the
metallic belts, sandal buckles and the
like. The male, allowing for dessica-
tion over the aeons, looked normal
enough. So did the female, apart from
a pair of secondary nipples under her
breasts. There was no body hair on
either of them — but many human
peoples practice depilation and, come
to that, extra pairs of breasts aren’t all
that uncommon.

We put the metal articles into the
specimen bag and then got back into
the harness. Obedient as ever Doggy
lifted and headed towards our original
objective. There were no more
corpses between us and that pillar of
multicoloured light. 'There was no re-
ason for us to stop, to delay the . . .
The confrontation?

Mayhew’s voice came through the
earpiece. “George It’s aware of you.
Be careful ”

Now he tells me, I thought.

“George I think you’d better turn
back f’

Then Grimes, “Captain Rule, re-
turn to the surface. That’s an order "

I said to Sara, “They’re scared of
something. They want us to return.”

She rephed, ‘Then we return.” I
heard the sharp click as she cocked
her sub-machine gun. “I’ve a feehng
myself that we’ve outstayed our wel-
come.”

Doggy came round in a wide arc.
We should have no trouble finding
our way to the . . . the exit; all that I

AMAZING

had to do was follow the cable of the
sound-powered telephone. Doggy
came round in a wide arc — and kept
on coming, steadying up, once again,
on the pillar of light.

“Come round, you little bitch'’ I
muttered. “Come round, damn you "
It was happening the way it some-
times happens with big ships, no mat-
ter what you do, no matter what you
try they seem to exhibit a will of their
own. And was Doggy exhibiting a will
of her own? I did not think so. She
was mine, or had been mine, but now
some other intelligence was taking
over from me in that miniaturised
control room.

I . . . concentrated. I couldn’t turn
her again, but I could — but for how
much longer? — check her progress
towards the column of luminescence.
She wanted to obey me — I felt — but a
stronger will than mine was taking
her over. It was she and me
against ... It. Two against one. A
human mind and a low grade robot
intelligence against a near deity. But
it wasn’t a real god, I told myself. It
was only a robot with all a robot’s
limitations. (And so was Doggy, come
to that, a very minor robot, and I was
only a human.)

She was faithful to me. I was the
prince who had awakened her from
her aeons long slumber. She was im-
printed on me. She was trying to
obey my orders. But something had
hold of her leash and was . . . pulling.
She had all four paws dug in yet was
slowly being dragged forward.

“Bail out ” I ordered Sara.

She unsnapped her buckles,
dropped to the ground. I followed
her. We stood there helplessly watch-
ing Doggy’s struggles. She would jerk
back half a metre and then, slowly,
slowly, would lose all that she had
gained, and more. And I identified

with her, as any shipmaster always
identifies with his vessel. Oh, she was
only a model, and she hadn’t been
made by beings even remotely hu-
manoid but, from the start, there had
been symbiosis.

“If we lose her,” whispered Sara,
“we’ve had it ... ”

Oddly enough that aspect of it all
hadn’t occurred to me until Sara put
it into words. And then I felt fear,
fear such as I had never known before
in my entire career — and I admit that
I’ve been scared stiff more than once.

Sara opened fire on the pillar of
flame. It may have done some
good — or harm, according to the
viewpoint — but there were no visual
indications that anything was being
accomplished. The stream of tracer
just lost itself in the greater luminos-
ity of the column of light. I pulled my
own pistol from its holster. I realised,
after I had it out, that it was the laser
and not the projectile weapwn. And
what could it do that the heavy slugs
could not?

But . . .

Hastily I set the weapon to wide
beam. I took aim, pressed the firing
stud. I aimed not at the flaming pillar
but at Doggy. The dazzling light fell
full on the vanes projecting from her
sleek body. Radiation was what she
fed on, what gave her strength.
Perhaps . . .

“Turn,” I whispered, vocalising my
thoughts. ‘Turn. . . Turn. . .”

She turned, not slowly, spinning on
her short axis.

“Steady, now, steady as you go. . .
Accelerate f’ And. “Run 1’ I shouted to
Sara. “Run! Follow the telephone
line!”

We ran. Luckily the cavern floor
was smooth, as most of my attention
was devoted to Doggy. I had to stop
her at the point where the telephone

DOGGY IN THE WINDOW

wire curved up from the horizontal to
the vertical. The headset itself I tore
off, dropped. There was too much risk
of my becoming entangled in the
wire.

Ahead of us Doggy hesitated,
started to swing back towards us. I
could see that as yet she was nowhere
near the opening of the shaft to the
upper world. I gave her another burst
from my laser pistol — ^and, her cells
recharged, she came once again under
my control.

We ran past the bodies of the two
humans. Briefly I wondered if we
should join them. We dashed through
a curtain of cold, blue fire that sud-
denly rose from the cavern floor.
Doggy, I saw, had reached the verti-
cal telephone wire. She was waiting
for us. Had I ordered her to do so? I
could not remember.

Another curtain of fire, and
another. . . A weapon, possibly, a
weapon evolved for use against some
other life form than ourselves. So It
wasn’t so bloody omniscient, omnipo-
tent after all. These pyrotechnics,
frightening as they were, weren’t
hurting us.

We were under the telephone
cable — a filament stretching upwards
into. . . nothingness. We were under
the waiting Doggy. The high pitched
whine that she was emitting set my
teeth on edge. Down! I thought im-
peratively. Down!

She dropped slowly. With fumbling
fingers I caught the dangling harness,
strapped Sara in and then myself

Up . . . Up . . . Lift, you bitch!
Lift!

We could feel the tension in the
straps but our feet were still firmly on
the ground. And something was hap-
pening in the cavern. Lights were
flashing all around us and the “sky”
was a terrifying sheet of multi-

coloured flame.

Lift! I commanded. Lift!

The bodies of the other explorers,
the long-dead beings who had pre-
ceded us, were on their feet, ani-
mated by some force that had taken
control of them, were shambling to-:
wards us, stiffly, jerkily. The naked,
skeletal man and woman . . . the cen-
taurs ... a thing like a big-headed
dinosaur . . . the giant arthropod.
Like robots they advanced, walking at
first, then crawling as the stream of
tracer from Sara’s gun hosed into
them, knocking them from their feet,
shattering fragile limbs. And then
only the great crab was left, its
carapace split in a dozen places, but
three of its spindly legs still functional
and one horrid claw raised menac-
ingly.

Doggy was whihing and straining
but she still could not lift our weight.

I pulled my laser pistol again. I
hated having to do it. It was like (I
imagine) flogging a faithful, willing
but utterly exhausted horse. I let her
have a burst of energy in the belly.
She screamed. But we were rising at
last, slowly at first then faster, faster,
through a darkness that was utter
emptiness rather than the mere ab-
sence of a light source. We were lift-
ing. We ...

With a dreadful certainty I knew
that we were falling again. Again I
used my laser pistol. Again Doggy
screamed.

And Sara screamed. An arm, at-
tenuated, enormously long, was
reaching for us, the fingers of the
hand writhing like tentacles. She was
swinging her gun around to bear upon
this apparition. Just in time to pre-
vent her from firing I caught her
wrist. In spite of the distortion I had
recognised the unusual ring on one of
the fingers, a wide band cut from

AMAZING

Carinthian black opal on which was
mounted a spiral nebula in silver
filagree. Sonya’s ring.

Other arms stretched out for us,
other hands. They caught hold of us,
of the harness. They dragged us away
from the altar, into the temple.

We saw them standing around us,
their faces pale, strained.

“Unbuckle yourselves” Grimss
shouted. “Hurry! Hurry!”

And there was need for haste.
Doggy screamed for the last time as
fire flashed from her miniature ports,
from the tips of her vanes. She fell
heavily, with a clattering crash, just
missing Sara and myself as we scram-

bled clear fi-om the tangle of webbing.
There was a trickle of blue smoke
from her, bearing the acridity of hot
metal.

Grimes said, his voice shaky, “I
thought you’d had it ... ” He went
on, “But you’re back ...”

“Thanks to Doggy,” I said. I looked
down at the pitiful little heap of
wreckage. “You know, if we get out of
this mess I’m going to keep her at
home, with my other souvenirs, in a
glass case ...”

“Doggy in the window,” said Sara.

I was the only one who didn’t think
it funny.

— ^A. Bertram Chandler

Duel (cont. from page 29)
the final act.

An hour passed. All about me
were only the sounds of the grazing
horses in the distance. In the bright
moonlight I could see nearly as far as
during the day.

Midnight approached. And another
five minutes, and I had begun to fear
that Gulchin had failed me. Then I
heard her, coming from the far side of
the plain, as though returning from a
journey, as we had planned.

She was visible for nearly a mile as
she came toward us. The Cat couldn’t
fail to see her.

Gulchin drew nearer, made to pass
my hiding place —

And the moment had come!

A shadow eased out from the

corner of the rock wall — I even
thought I could detect a fringe of
black bair. I trained my rifle on the
spot. If the Cat moved into view it
was dead.

It moved into view — and I pulled
the trigger.

The trap had been sprung

At the exact instant I fired the un-
wounded Cat erupted from the cliff
edge and passed the girl, so swiftly
that I never actually saw it, merely
retaining a swift imprint of its outline
on my retinas.

Now it was on the rock, facing me,
and I had another split second to re-
alize that I had not been the one to
spring the final trap — before the Cat
reached me.

— Charles V. De Vet

DOGGY IN THE WINDOW

He was the product of years of research and careful planning — but
they’d given him no identity!

EXIGENCY & MARTIN
HEIDEGGER

JAMES SALLIS

ILLUSTRATED by JOE STATON

Jl SAT FAR BACK in the darkness of
the alley, my feet braced against
whatever I could find, which hap-
pened to be a Dempster Dumpster
and a brick wall, knees up and the
gun out before me in the best two-
handed grip, arms on my knees —
about the size of a cigarette package
and silent, the gun had, I had been
told, the recoil of an elephant rifle,
and could take a man’s arm ofiF — and
waited. Sooner or later they would
come around the corner, or down off
one of the roofs. Then I would prob-
ably die.

In the back of my mind, I was
thinking two things. (The front was
occupied with the question of death,
not exactly a new prospect for me.)
First, what would Heidegger say
about all this? My brother was the au-
thority; I wished I could call and ask.
Second, what would The People make
of my body?

I do not, you see, ofiBcially exist.
There is no record of my birth, my
fingerprints are not on file anywhere
in the world, I have no vital statistics,
I do not even have a name. I am the
product of sperm and ova brought to-

gether in a nutrient chamber — the
genetics had been carefully
considered — and later transplanted
into the body of a young girl whom I
knew only as Twelve. Twelve, I had
met, but the only “parents” I really
knew were a group of international
scientists, pacifists every one of them,
who have over the last thirty or so
years mysteriously vanished. I was
never given their names — we do not
use names — ^but in the course of
studies have made various assump-
tions; were I to write the names down
here, many of you would recognise
them.

At any rate, I spent my first twenty
years in a cluster of buildings where
these men worked and lived — I have
no idea where it is located; an
island — and my training and study
was extensive. Then I was released
into the world. My final instructions
were two-fold: 1) Act on my own in-
itiative and, 2) Maintain contact.
Twenty of us went out; three were
left.

Among the things I’d found out on
a previous assignment, quite by
chance, was that the donors of sperm

AMAZING

and ova which had led to my ex-
istence had subsequently got to-
gether, again quite by chance, and
much to the consternation of the
group that nurtured me, contracted
for marriage, and produced a son. He
had a Ph.D. in philosophy and, if our
information was correct — this may
come as a shock, considering the so-
cial theories you were taught at
school — was effectively running the
government. He was 26, liberal, bril-
liant and, as far as he knew, an only
child. Which made the advantage
mine.

That the proudest product of a
group of pacifists should be waiting
with an illegal weapon in an alley
somewhere in this united world, this
world at peace, to kill or be killed,
may strike some of you — those who
watch the regular broadcasts and read
the newsheets — as strange, even un-
believable.

Such is life. And such, also (I
though, waiting there), is death.

The moon was out as I crossed
the dock that night which now seems
so long ago towards a certain bar in a
certain city in a certain country. I
thought for some reason of Ingmar
Bergman, how he had always used
the moon as a symbol of the super-
natural, and of an unsettling old poem
called ‘The Listener” (“Tell them I
kept my promise. Tell them I
came.”), and had a sudden sense of
foreboding, though I am not, by na-
ture or inclination, a superstitious
man.

To explain what I was doing there,
let me go back to those final orders.
“Act on my own initiative” — that was
what I did most of the time; no prob-
lems. But the second, “Maintain con-
tact,” was somewhat more difficult.
No reports were made, nothing was

EXIGENCY & MARTIN HEIDEGGER

written down, and telephones, of
course, even if numbers existed, were
strictly forbidden; I had never used
one. Dial an exchange and two relays
open: one leads you into at&t’s net-
work, the other into the government’s
computer banks. And even if you stay
on audio, the sophistication of voice-
prints being what it is — they are as
individual as fingerprints — you can
see the problem; sooner or later, the
computer analysis sections would start
spitting out questions and statistics
we’d just as soon they not have.

So. I am a free agent, but, ran-
domly, I am expected to be at certain
designated places at certain desig-
nated times. I had been at one of
those places, never mind where, that
morning and had received a signal,
never mind what, and now I was on
my way to that certain bar, etc.

I took the usual precautions — I
don’t exist, we don’t exist, but you
never know; some of our actions had
naturally attracted government atten-
tion, and indications were taht suspi-
cion was high: they knew something
was going on, even if they had no
idea what — went in, and took a seat
by the door. The waitress came over.
I order a Scotch.

“Will that be cash or credit. Sir?”

Credit of course meant the central
computer banks; it was some indica-
tion of the sort of place it was that she
even bothered to ask.

“Cash. Marks be okay?”

“Certainly, Sir.”

She went off to get my drink and I
sat looking at the feces around me.
They were about what you’d expect.
Mixed nationalities, shapes, expres-
sions, none of them too curious about
the others.

I had been there an hour — for me,
that’s two drinks — when a drunk
staggered in and sat at the end of the

bar. I didn’t show any interest, but
that was my man. I’d never seen him
before, of course.

For the next hour or so he sat there
slugging down bourbon. People came
and went. He was paying with
drachmas.

Finally he laid his head down on
the bar and seemed to go to sleep.
’The waitress had just turned from
getting him a new drink. She sat it
down and moved towards the phone.
I took my time getting up, walked to
the bar, and signalled for her atten-
tion. She took her hand away from
the phone and came over.

“Dr. John Svensk. I’m a psychia-
trist. Do me a favor, let me handle
this. And get us some coffee.”

She hesitated — it was against the
rules — but psychiatry, after all, is in
this day and age an authority that few
dare to challenge. There was a real
Dr. Svensk, hcense and all, of course,
if she cared to check. Credit records
even showed he’d been at this bar in
the past, though God knows why. She
went through a double door to the
kitchen and I made a show of rousing
the drunk.

“Gotta help me, man,” he said
when I got his head up off" the bar.
“Been askin all day. Everybody. Who
won the series, man? I gotta know.”

‘Tokyo,” I said. His head bobbed
like a balloon on the end of a piece of
string. “I’m Dr. Svensk. You want to
come over here and talk about it? The
waitress is bringing us some coffee.”

He let himself be led to a table on
unsure legs — a table fer away from
the others — and we sat down. The
waitress was there with the coffee.
She poured us each a cup.

“You’ll want it black,” she said.

“Right. Thanks.” I gave her a ten-
shilling note. “Keep the change.”

We sat there for several minutes.

AMAZING

sipping at the hot, bitter coffee.
Eventually he began to speak. I won’t
put it all down here — most of it was
gibberish, non sequitur, signal and
code — but the gist was this:

Secret negotiations were being
conducted for a Sino-Arab “security
pact,” a pact in direct violation of the
SALT talks then under discussion in
Geneva. My employers (for lack of a
better word) felt this to be some pret-
ty fancy, and dangerous, footwork,
especially as both sets of negotiations
were being conducted by the same
man, and they felt it was time to
teach the government a summary les-
son. They were willing to go all the
way with this one, even if it meant
blowing the cover of our entire or-
ganisation (which was, after all, quite
unlikely). My instructions were to,
first, do everything I could to embar-
rass the countries involved and, sec-
ond, most important, arrange for the
— well, loosely translated,
“disappearance” — of that government
official. Then there was something
else, something about —

I sensed it before I heard it: the
scraping of chair legs. I don’t know,
maybe it was something I saw in my
contact’s fece, or the insinct that will
always tie us to our animal forebears.
But I was on my feet in a second.
Even before I turned, I saw the gun
appear in my contact’s hand. That was
strictly against procedure and without
precedent — if they hauled him in,
after all, they just have drunk
citizen — and I realised then that his
orders were absolute: protect me at
all costs.

“Get the hell out of here!” he
hissed as those thoughts were running
through my head. “Go!”

I finished my turn and saw two
men — ^whom I hadn’t seen come in,
and I’m careful about things like

that — advancing slowly towards us. I
was out the door before they took
three more steps.

Outside, I kept going. I didn’t
pause to wonder what was going on
back there. He was doing his job,
whoever he was, and I was doing
mine, which was, at this moment, to
put as much distance between myself
and the bar as possible. I knew where
I was going; it’s almost a reflex; never
enter without making plans for exit.

I came to a stop under a deserted
pier and stood there a moment, forc-
ing myself to deep-breathe. Conjec-
ture flooded my mind. Who the hell
were they? how did they happen to
be there? how much did they know?
Then I realised I could chase that
around all night and still come up
empty. My next contact was two
weeks away; until then, I was on my
own. With an assignment, no informa-
tion, and someone, someone, hot on
my tail. Well, at least that wouldn’t
last long. And maybe in two weeks I
would come up with some answers.

I changed into the clothes I’d left
there earlier, then peeled off the plas-
tic make-up I always wear — there was
no doubt that pictures had been tak-
en. I threw it into the deep, dark
mother of us all, the sea.

And walked casually away from
there.

Two WEEKS LATER I was some-
where off the Gulf Coast. The engines
were shut down, I was drifting, and,
the radar informed me, there was no
other ship withing fifty miles. But
certain signals had been passed, and I
was expecting company.

I was sitting below deck, a beer in
my hand, thinking.

Those two weeks had been busy
ones. Travel is difficult — after all, one
cannot pay cash for an airline ticket

EXIGENCY & MARTIN HEIDEGGER

to, say, Vietnam, Arkansas, without
attracting attention — but there are
ways, ways of which I had taken full
advantage.

For instance, what if I told you
there is a nexus in a cow pasture in a
certain Southern city, another in a
certain European city, and four others
the locations of which I do not know,
where one may tap the central com-
puter banks, even, with the proper
code sequence, gain access to security
information, and with no record of
the tap?

Well, I am telling you. And if you
wonder how such is possible, let me
just say that a certain computer scien-
tist who won a Nobel Prize in ’78
later disappeared off the face of the
earth. Now, if you were that scientist,
called upon to head the central com-
puter project, if you were a pacifist
deeply concerned with certain current
trends in international affairs and
were, in fact, considering options
which ahd been suggested to you,
what would you do?

So a part of my itinerary had in-
cluded that certain Southern city. I
had flown into New Orleans, rented a
car, and driven to another city not too
distant, where I extracted a large
amount of cash from a locker in a bus
terminal. Then I had abandoned the
car, rented another, and driven to a
third city, where, at a health spa
locker, I picked up a machine that has
no name but is about the size of a
shoebox (it even looks like a shoebox).
At which time I was on my way to
that cow pasture.

Now, I don’t care what the hot-shot
cyberneticists tell you — and some of
them these days will tell you some
pretty strange stuff — a computer can-
not think. To get answers, you have
to ask the right questions.

After reaching the nexus (no mean

feat: rather like negotiating a

minefield) and patching in the
shoebox (which requires the equiva-
lent of a degree in engineerying;
there are thousands of wires, every
color known to man, and you have to
get the right ones), I ran the usual
checks, entered one of the identity
codes we use, and spent the next thir-
teen hours soliciting information. I
fed in everything I could think of —
names of my employers, names I’d as-
sumed in the past, locations where we
susjrected seventeen of us had been
killed, actions we’d taken in the
past — and came up blank.

Oh, I elicited quite a lot of random
information, some of it passably in-
teresting; but nothing substantial.

There was no record in any security
or open file concerning our organisa-
tion, my own existence, nothing. Not
even a hint of real suspicion.

I cycled the shoebox through erase
and promptly left the area, taking an
entirely different route than the one
by which I’d approaced.

So there I was, sitting below deck
with a beer I kept forgetting to drink,
thinking. And waiting.

Someone, damn it, was onto us, and
there was organisation behind it. How
else to explain their intercepting that
rendezvous, something we had be-
lieved impossible? Not only were they
suspicious, they had information,
closely guarded information: they not
only were there, at the contact loca-
tion, they were very definitely after
me. A man who didn’t exist, any-
where. If they weren’t the police, or
government men — and there was no-
thing in the files — just who the hell
were they? “Foreign agents” (as they
used to say in the old days before
world unity and the denial that such
existed), with their own secret, illegal
computer banks to which we had no

AMAZING

access? And more importantly, who-
ever they were, just how much did
they really know?

I was hoping to get some answers
anytime now. Of course, it was possi-
ble that they knew about this contact
too. But if my contact had any such
indication, the rendezvous would not
be made. And out here, miles from
shore, radars on, we were fairly safe.
As safe as we ever are.

I finished the beer and tossed the
aluminum can down the reclamation
chute. A moment later, a blip ap-
peared on the radar, which was scan-
ning at fifty miles. I sat still, watching
the bhp ease towards the middle of
the screen. It was bearing in from the
northeast; I had no idea of its point of
origin. Nothing else showed. I
waited.

A few seconds later, the radio, set
to a certain frequency, crackled mean-
ingfully. But if they knew everything
else, they could know that as well. I
made no response. My contact, it if
was my contact, might read that as a
warning and abort, or he might de-
cide to come on in with the proper
sequence; it depended on his orders
and personal initiative. I was betting
on the latter, since he had nothing to
lose. As far as any observer was con-
cerned, this was a dead ship, drifting.
But if it was them, the others, they
would definitely come on in. I didn’t
know what their orders might be.
They might include bombing the ship
out of the water and tying up the
flotsam in neat packages. But if it was
information they were after, they’d
want me alive, and would follow the
proper sequence (assuming they knew
it) to make contact. I just had no way
of knowing.

All I could do was wait.

Eventually, I could hear the ship
cutting its way through the water to-

wards me. Then, minutes later, a bull-
horn voice:

“Rubber Duck, this is Captain
Ramsey. Is there anyone aboard?”

So fer, so good.

”I repeat: Is there anyone aboard? I
am requesting permission to board.
Please respond.”

Minutes passed like reluctant
sheep. Finally, the whine of the en-
gines told me they were laying in
alongside. I felt a gentle bump as the
ships connected and, almost im-
mediately, footsteps up, on deck. A
single man.

In three minutes someone waS/ com-
ing down that ladder. The question
being. How could I be sure it was my
contact? Everything had been accord-
ing to the book, true. Still

My hand tightened on the tiny
relay box. It was set to ignite multi-
ple, strategically placed plastique
charges which would destroy both
ships and leave precious little evi-
dence they ever existed. I saw feet on
the top rung. A body slowly followed.
The face came last, when he turned
around.

I sat there staring.

“Something wrong. Son?” He fi-
nally said.

“No, Sir.” I set the relay box on
the table before me. “Just a httle sur-
prised.” Surprised, hell. This broke
every rule we had.

He stood, looking me over care-
fully.

“How have you been. Son?”

“Fine, Sir.”

He nodded thoughtfully.

“Good, good. I suppose you know
there are only three of you left?”

I nodded. “Yes, Sir, I have re-
ceived that information.”

“And that one is insane?”

“No, Sir.”

“I see. Well, no matter. I don’t

EXIGENCY & MARTIN HEIDEGGER

suppose you’d have a drink on this
tub.”

“Yes, Sir. Bourbon and water, if I
remember correctly. ”

“Right.”

I stepped into the narrow galley
and mixed the drink, brought it back.
I had got myself another beer. We sat
there sipping. I glanced at the radar.
Nothing.

“I suppose you are wondering why
I am here,” he said after a while.

“Well ”

“In breach of all security.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He took a long breath, let it out.

“It’s grave. Son, quite grave.”

He paused, inviting comment.
When none came, he went on. “It
could mean, unless prompt action is
taken, the end of everything we stand
for, and the final consolidation of cor-
rupt establishments.”

He paused again.

“Now, as you know, we do not flat-
ter ourselves; we know we are noth-
ing more than wasp stings, the burr
beneath the saddle, the itch that must
be scratched. But in this society
within which we find ourselves, such
irritants are essential. They go some
small way toward maintaining equilib-
rium, integrity, and true peace. ’Those
are the premises upon which we were
founded, and upon which we have for
many years now operated.”

He stopped, obviously choosing his
words carefully.

“Did you know that open warfere
exists in the Far East? and that a re-
volution is building in United South
Brazil?”

“No, Sir.”

"No. No, of course not.”

He finished his drink and held out
the glass. I returned to the galley,
mixed another, came back. He took a
sip and said abruptly:

“Someone is onto us.”

I nodded. “That seemed obvious at
the last contact.”

"Quite.” He looked down at the
drink in his hand as if the ice cubes
were really icebergs, only the bare,
innocent top showing. I had the feel-
ing this conversation was the same.

"You will perhaps be relieved to
learn,” he continued, “that your con-
tact was not molested. Or perhaps
not. It signifies that you, as you
surely must realise, are the primary
target.”

“That seemed equally obvious.”

“I suppose.”

He supposed. Here was a man who
had dedicated his very life to logic
and the pursuit of reason, disciplines
he himself had drilled into me again
and again, and now he was supposing.
That worried me a little. It should
have worried me a lot.

“Son. . . ?” He hesitated.

“Yes, Sir?” I finally said.

“May I ask how you feel about . . .
us?”

“Sir, I think you know the answer
to that. I am devoted to your cause. I
feel towards you as a child feels to-
wards his parents.”

“Children, given sufficient cause,
have learned to hate their parents.”

“And what. Sir, would be the
cause?”

“Perhaps the oldest, strongest cause
in the world, the prime directive built
into every gene you posses: self-
preservation.”

"Death is a thing one learns to live
with.”

“A mere slogan. Intended to short-
circuit the processes of original
thought.”

“No, Sir. Zen.”

“Philosophy is the only field of en-
deavor which produces more slogans
than politics.”

AMAZING

I looked at him carefully. I realised
suddenly what was going on. And
wondered why it took so long.

“I am not afraid to die, Sir, if it is
necessary. If the cell must die in
order that the organism flourish, that
is the way of things.”

“No, that is not the way of things.
That is only what you were taught.”
He looked back at the ice cubes, a si-
lent consultation. “You’ve heard Rim-
baud.”

“Of course.”

‘Everything we are taught is
false.’ ”

“Sir, I do not feel it necessary to
remind you, you of all people, that I
am a creature possessed of free will,
considerable personal resources — ”

“And a carefully programmed set of
psychological attitudes, virtual re-
flexes.”

I shrugged. “Yes, Sir.”

We sat there for several minutes. A
blip showed momentarily on the
radar, then moved off to the north.

“It has come to our attention,” he
said at last, “that, against directives,
you have been the recipient of certain
information concerning. ...” He sip-
ped at his drink. “You know, of
course, to what I refer?”

I nodded. “My brother. It was by
chance, not intention.”

“We are your family. Son.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He paused.

“You are under assignment, and I
presume you have begun the pre-
liminaries necessary to that assign-
ment. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Feeling the threat to our cause to
be of primary importance, we are now
rescinding, at least partially, those or-
ders. Your sole and only assignment is
to remove that threat, at any cost, by
whatever means are possible. These

orders are absolute. Are there any
questions?”

“No, Sir.” I knew now naturally,
where we were headed; but what he
wanted me to know, he would tell
me, in his own way and time.

“We do not know who is behind
this. As you have no doubt discov-
ered, there is nothing of import in
any computer banks to which we have
access. However, our current infor-
mation strongly suggests that the key
man in this operation Is . . . your
‘brother,’ as you insist ujx)n calling
him.” He was watching me closely.
“‘That is the sum of our information.
It is not much,- true, but we feel it
sufficient to act upon.”

He waited, then leaned forward in
his chair. Body language, it’s called,
and at his instruction. I’m something
of an authority. The feeling of trust
and confidentiality was almost tangi-
ble.

“So here it is,” he said. “At a cer-
tain specified time tonight, a certain
unidentifiable body will be shot to
death attempting to breach the se-
curity of your brother’s office. This
body will, in size and build, corres-
pond with yours. They have, of
course, no record of your facial as-
pect. We hope they, whoever they
are, will believe this to be you. At
some unspecified time after that, their
attention diverted and, we hope, their
suspicions allayed, you yourself will
enter that same office, by whatever
means you contrive. Is that clear?”

I nodded. I didn’t imagine they had
unlimited access to unidentifiable
bodies. That other body, the sacrifice,
had to be the other remaining . . .
operative (they had never given us ti-
tles).

“At which time,” he said, “you will
execute your assignment. Which is, as
I have said, absolute. Are there any

EXIGENCY & MARTIN HEIDEGGER

questions?”

I shook my head. It seemed clear
enough. They were going all the way
with this one, and I, as usual, was
along for the ride. All the way down
the tunnel to the deep, dark end. But
without Us. . . .

“I have one final word of advice,”
he said, interrupting my thoughts.

"Yes, Sir?”

"Read Heidegger.”

“Heidegger.”

“Quite. Your brother is a scholar, a
convert to this very particular brand
of phenomenology. This scholarship
has affected his mind, his patterns of
thought. To really understand him, to
get inside his head, you must — ”

“Read Heidegger.”

“Heidegger. In the German. That’s
all I have for you.”

“Yes, Sir. Understood.”

“Good.” He stood, placing the
half-filled glass on the table before
me. Need I say. ...” He stopped.
Maybe he felt enough precedents had
been broken today. “That’s all I have
for you,” he repeated.

“Yes, Sir.”

He made his way to the ladder,
climbed, and, moments later, the
ship’s engines revved up, pulled
away. I sat listening to them fade into
the distance. I was thinking: Doppler
effect, red shift. But, deeper, I was
thinking other things.

I was fully aware that I had just
been subjected to a subtle, penetrat-
ing psychological interview; one does
not send out a top psychocyberneticist
(some, including himself, thought he
was the best) to issue assignments,
against all established procedure and
precedent.

I was also thinking of kamikaze
pilots; of an organisation that, ostensi-
bly to protect itself, was willing to de-
stroy itself, or at least C:ut off its one

remaining arm, of that prime directive,
self-preservation. I had no delusions
of self-grandeur; I was unique, true
(though not as unique as my mentors,
obviously, would have liked), but I
was, and had been fi'om the first, a
pawn, expendable. But if a pawn
reached the final rank. . . .

I stopped myself in mid-thought.
One measures a circle, beginning
anywhere. I had my assignment.

I was exjjected to drift, dead, for
two more hours. Then I would head
into a certain marina, dock the ship,
and disappear.

My next contact was three days off.

I had no illusions about being there.

I remembered a certain Jesuit, a
man with whom I had spent a great
deal of time, the man who taught me
the game of chess, a grandmaster. I
played him for ten years and never
won a game. Then one day, having
read quite a lot about Paul Morphy
(who, if I have my facts right, eventu-
ally drowned himself in a bathtub), I
began making sacrifice plays, gambits.
My opponent grew increasingly, as I
watched, disturbed, distracted — this
was evidently against something deep
within him — and I won the game.
And every game we played thereafter.

I shrugged and cracked open
another beer.

For the moment, that was my
place, as they used to say, in the
scheme of things.

I READ Heidegger. Sein and Zeit.
Well, most of it, maybe four hundred
pages.

It was a run-down hotel in the
busiest part of town. Once, it had
probably been a luxury establishment,
but time, as it always does, had taken
its toll. Now the paint was peeling off
the walls, the ceiling above me
sagged ominously, and the mattress

AMAZING

bore reminders of all those who had
paused here, briefly or longer, on
their cruise towards death. Stains of
urine, bhxrd, vomit, whiskey, semen.

I put down the book, suddenly re-
alising that I’d become more in-
terested in the metaphysics of the
room than the same of Herr Heideg-
ger. A note on the back of the jacket
stated that Heidegger had lived for
forty years on a mountaintop in Ger-
many, which I could believe, and had
quietly passed away one night in his
sleep, a gentle smile on his lips, to
join the great Sein in the sky; his
work had dramatically altered the di-
rections of Western philosophy, turn-
ing it away from the logical positivism
current before his influence was truly
felt; scholars and scientists of which
had been the reading of selections
from his own work.

Brief thoughts of Holderlin (his
suicide), Neitzsche (that last, mad let-
ter: "Sing me a new song. The world
is transfigured and the heavens are
full of joy. Signed, The Crucified.”).

I don’t know why I found the room
of such interest. I was engaged in pat-
terns of thought wholly alien to me,
true — a man of action, I was not one
to ponder overmuch the mysteries of
life, to wade the sludge of everyday
life towards the box deep in the
jungle where The Secret was kept —
and maybe the room was a reference
point, perspective, bringing me back
to the realities (or what I assumed to
be realities) of what I was and the
ways in which I had spent my life.

Spent iny life — the phrase suddenly
incurred a new, an absolute meaning
for me, waiting there in that room to
do (as I thought) what had to be
done.

Urine, blood, vomit, whiskey, se-
men.

Maybe they were in the wrong or-

der, but that about summed it up.

I looked at the clock, which, like
almost every clock in the world, was
patched into the central computers,
precise to the second:

11:23:45.

I swung my legs off the bed and
stood. I generally travel light, but this
time I’d picked up some extra equip-
ment, some very special equipment,
all of it illegal as hell. Most was al-
ready in place including some simple
explosives (diversion is the oldest tac-
tic in the books) and some extremely
sophisticated electronic and bio-
thermal devices. The rest, including a
tiny gun the size of a cigarette pac-
kage, I stuffed into various pockets.

And hit the streets.

Down the tunnel, as I had thought
earlier, to the deep, dark end.

I had found a chink, an opening,
and I was going in, going in blind
with no real plan for getting out. But
then, I didn’t expect to get out.

I figured I had, at the outside, fif-
teen minutes to reach ground zero,
fifth floor, second door, fifteen min-
utes before the delaying devices I’d
set for midnight were detected by the
computer checks, or some alarm I di-
dn’t know about was set off, or
something — I really didn’t know what
was in there. But I was counting on
those fifteen minutes, and if I got
them, reached that office, my part of
the game was over.

In more ways than one.

I reached the building and stood
across the street from the entrance I’d
chosen.

It was 11:58:59.

There were two guards on the
door. They might be wearing life
bracelets — that was a chance I had to
take — but I was hoping the excite-
ment earlier that evening had lowered
their guard.

EXIGENCY & MARTIN HEIDEGGER

Crossing the street, I knew it
hadn’t.

What they saw; A certain People’s
Advocate, whose build is, inciden-
tally, similar to mine, crossing the
street, presumably for an unplanned
conference with — someone.

\N’hat I saw; Two highly trained
men coming to attention, one of them
turning to the Combox by the door,
the other reaching towards the
government issue ppk at his belt.
Standard procedure.

What the hell, I had no choice.

I shot them.

The float guard wouldn’t be around
for thirty minutes, and it was too late
now to stop. I was, as of this moment,
on borrowed time. I only hoped I was
right about the fifteen minutes.

I entered the building and, without
pause, shot the guard at the lobby
desk. He was, as fer as human sec-
urity went, the nerve center. If one of
the other guards had anything to re-
port within the next few minutes,
they would know something was
wrong and an alarm would go out.
That was just another chance I had to
take.

It occurred to me that the chances
were multiplying at an alarming rate.

I glanced briefly at the bank of
scanners, saw all guards at their posts
and no signal lights.

So far, so good.

My movements over the ensuing
minutes are of no great importance,
involving though they did the shoot-
ing of three more guards. Enough to
say; I hit the stairs and kept going,
damn the torpedoes, come hell or
high water, and I didn’t wait till I saw
the whites of their eyes.

I came up short, breathing hard, at
the second door, fifth floor. I had
been in the building thirteen min-
utes.

The door was unmarked.

I eased it oj>en and stepped inside.

This was it.

The room was dark. He was sitting
far back in the shadows, behind a
huge desk, watching the door.

I raised the gun. I held it out be-
fore me, two-handed, levelled it at his
head —

And stopped.

I still don’t know why. I had never
killed a quiescent, waiting man; there
had always been some final move, of
defense, at least escape; maybe that
was it. Or maybe it was something
deeper, a genetic code. Or maybe,
even then, I knew.

“You would be making a grave .mis-
take,” the quiet voice came. “Con-
gratulations are in order, I suppose.
That you made it this far. Of course, I
suspected that you would.”

I said nothing.

“Upon opening that door, you
broke a simple electrical connection,
which is at this moment causing an
alarm light to flash at various locations
in and around this building. There are
also heat sensors in this room, no
doubt registering your intrusion. And
of course I have closed a contact
switch set into my desk here.”

I let the gun fell to my side.

“At our last Security drill, it took
the guards from the floor above, three
minutes to reach this office. Which
leaves you, I should say, approxi-
mately two minutes.”

I hesitated. I knew there was no
way out, no way in hell, but the in-
stinct was still there.

“Please look on the table beside
you.”

I looked down. A piece of paper lay
there, several words printed on it in a
careful block hand; “Go out the door.
Turn left and go into the next office.
There is a door at the rear. Use the

AMAZING

identity code Sansom 12-B-56. Go
through that door and keep going.
Ask no questions.”

I looked back up.

It was a trap; I was sure of that; but
I didn’t understand.

Still, it was the only game in town,
the instinct was strong, and he who
hesitates, etc.

I turned and fled.

The door was there. I used the
identity code and went through it,
coming into a long, bare corridor that
sloped sharply down. Then stairs,
more corridor, stairs again, corridor.
There was no indication of pursuit.

An hour later I emerged in a copse
of bushes in what I assumed to be a
park. I moved away from the open-
ing, into the cover of the bushes, and
lay prone, the gun braced before me.

It took them four minutes.

The first one came up out of the
opening like a rabbit, gun ready, and
I shot him in the head.

There was a pause — the gun was si-
lent, but they may have heard his
grunt, or the impact of his body hit-
ting the ground — then the other two
came up together. I shot the closer
one, rolled out of the way of the
other’s shot, then took him through
the chest. He fell, breath gurgling.
He wasn’t dead, but soon would be.

I waited.

Thirty minutes.

Then I put the gun away and
walked out of the bushes, looking for
landmarks. I didn’t know where I
was, and I didn’t like that; it put me
at a disadvantage. It was not a city I
knew well, except by map; I had
taken pains in the past to avoid it and
its mania for security.

I found what looked like a bridle
path and followed it to the edge of
the part, which was a small one,
where I came onto a street I knew. I

walked slowly along it, turned right,
walked two blocks, turned left, and
kept on, improvising, following a ran-
dom, crazy-quilt design all my own,

With the curfew, there were very
few people on the streets at this hour.
I saw three cars (one of them a police
car on the avenue ahead; I tensed; it
went by), two pedestrians. Of course
if I were stopped and challenged. . . .

My destination was supposed to be
a STOL pad near the center of the
city, but I was moving steadily away
from that. Everyone seemed to be
three steps ahead of me; I didn’t
understand the game any longer; I had
a sudden feeling of compassion for
that Jesuit I’d shaken up by putting
the game on terms he couldn’t accept.
I knew just how he felt. I had never
been so confused, or felt so afone, in
all my life.

It took me almost two hours to pick
him up.

He was good, no doubt about it.
In daytime. I’d never have tumbled
to him. But he was hampered by the
very curfew intended to make things
easier for his kind. He was dogging
me about four blocks back, moving up
closer when I turned, dropping back
on the long stretches.

I made several consecutive turns
and, twenty minutes later, knew
there was more than one.

They Were running a modified
ABC, which is the best tail ever de-
vised and, on non-deserted streets,
foolproof Here, it stood out like a
sore thumb.

I made some simple diversionary
moves, then some more comphcated
ones, and they were still there. In
fact, they were closing in. I couldn’t
tell how many there were. But prob-
ably enough.

Two things occurred to me.

First, they didn’t care that I knew

EXIGENCY & MARTIN HEIDEGGER

they were there. Second, they had
me.

No subways to duck into, no busy
stores.

It was just a matter of time.

The only thing I couldn’t under-
stand was why they were holding
back.

Then, suddenly, it came to me, as I
mentally retraced my course; I was
being subtly, surely maneuvered away
from the building I’d left, as far away
as possible, towards Hell’s Row. In
Hell’s Row, one more body would
cause no interest, attract no attention.
And any investigation would be, at
best, perfunctory.

I was seized with a new, profound
admiration for the men there behind
me, and for the intelligence —
presumably my brother’s — that
guided them. I — all of us — had been
outwitted, outmaneuvered, at every
turn, from the start of the game. All
the chips were theirs.

And I was in the final, foul comer.

Urine, blood, vomit, whiskey, se-
men.

The end of the tunnel.

“Low profile,’’ as they used to say,
had always been the rule — attract no
attention, leave nothing behind — and
it was a premise upon which, every
day, every year of my life, I had op-
erated. But as I stopped there, listen-
ing to the footsteps behind me, some-
thing broke. I could almost feel
synapses, new synapses, firing inside
my head.

I was going down, I had no doubt
about that, but I was going down
fighting.

I was going to leave something be-
hind.

Evidence that I, name or no name,
had been on this earth.

A memory.

Something.

I suddenly turned right, then right
again, heading back towards the cen-
tral city, moving fest. I was hoping
they would believe what I was doing
to be random efforts at elusion. I did
not know how long it would take
them to catch on — I didn’t think it
would be very long — but I was play-
ing for time.

I had apparently run out of time.

Because I rounded another comer
and one of them was there, waiting.
Apparently he had anticipated my
moves and, when I turned right,
turned left, double-timing it to get
here before me. Score another one for
the bad guys.

But he had made a mistake: he had
come in too close. I went in, fast,
under the gun — feeling the bullet tear
through the air just above me — and
hit him square in the stomach. He
had seen it coming; he just had too
much faith in the damned gun, and
too little time. We both went down,
the difference being that I was ready
for it and he wasn’t. I was back on my
feet in an instant. I kicked him in the
balls and shot him in the head. I saw
his face disappear. Then I was gone, a
block away, two blocks, mnning.

For a moment I thought I’d lost
them. Hope springs eternal and all
that. But then I realised that the man
I’d left dead back there had not been
the only one to anticipate my move-
ments. Crossing a street, I caught
glimpse of them, I didn’t know how
many, closing in rapidly from my
right.

I knew they had me. They knew
they had me.

So now was the time.

There was an alley to my left.

Death’s Row.

So I SAT &r back in the darkness of
the alley, my feet braced against

AMAZING

whatever I could find, which hap-
pened to be a Dempster Dumpster
and a brick wall, knees up and the
gun out before me in the best two-
handed grip, arms on my knees, and
waited.

Bits and pieces of Heidegger kept
floating to the front of my mind.
Now, a man who is about to die does
not ordinarily think of Heidegger — he
may think of all the unfulfilled yearn-
ings never to be realised, or if he is a
different kind of man, a very lucky
man, the few moments of real happi-
ness he has achieved — but he does
not think of Heidegger. I knew then
that my picture of the world, like it or
not, and I didn’t particularly like it,
had been changed, changed
forever — was it Heidegger? was it the
man in the still room? — cut to jigsaw
pieces and scattered to the winds. A
revelation, born of dire circumstance,
that I would take to the grave.

Then (as the seconds became hours)
I thought of the second directive:
procreation. 'The continuation of the
species and, by extension, oneself I
was aware for the first time, truly
aware, that I was not the issue of that
directive, that instinct, but of Sci-
ence. Logic and Reason, the new
gods. And I was also aware, painfully
aware, that never in my life had I
slept with another human being.

There were six of them. Shapes,
not faces. I was not sure that I could
fire at faces. But they appeared at the
comer, came down the alley in wing
formation. Shapes.

Prime directive time.

I figured I had three, four of them
before they reached me.

My grip tightened on the tiny gun.

It happened very fast. All I saw was
a flash of light, a single flash of light
which seemed to come from the roof-
top. But at the same time I saw six

men fall. I know what dead men look
like.

I looked up and saw him coming
down the fire escape. His back was to
me. “You may put your gun away,”
the quiet voice said as he reached the
bottom and turned.

I got up and moved towards him.

We met in the center of the alley,
the bodies around us.

W’e stood there, I don’t know how
long, looking at one another.

“Nature and nurture. Brother,” he
finally said. “Composed of the same
genetic material, still we are different.
You, the proudest product of
pacifism, are a violent man, a killer.
Whereas I — ”

“We are to overlook, I take it, the
feet that you have just shot down six
of what I presume to be your own
men.”

He smiled. “So perhaps we are not
so dissimilar after all?”

He held up a small object. “Quite a
useful toy. It seeks out the body heat,
within a limited range of course.
Quite illegal, naturally. But the
newest thing. And useful.”

“Six men are dead — ”

“Six of the best agents this country
has produced. And the only six re-
maining, incidentally, who knew of
your existence.” He held up a hand.
“The exigencies of circumstance.”

I had a sudden sense of revelation,
of impending epiphany, as James
Joyce, that Jesuit’s favorite writer, had
put it.

“Care to tell me what this is all
about?” I said after a while.

“You are to be congratulated on
your intrepidness,” he said. “Of
course, I had counted on that very
thing, to bring you this far.”

I just stood there, watching him. It
was like looking in a mirror. The face,
the hair, the build, it was all the

EXIGENCY & MARTIN HEIDEGGER

same. A genetic freak, even if the
hotshots tell you there are no genetic
freaks. We were identical. Twins.

“It goes back a long way,” he said.
"Back to an only child’s fantasy — Did
you know there were three of us?”

I shook my head.

“We have a sister. She is insane.”

Waiting, I said nothing.

“An only child’s fantasy,” he con-
tinued a moment later. “Perhaps to
be expected. But it persisted, in the
face of all reason, all psychiatric care.
I imagined I had a brother, a compan-
ion. 'Mon semblable. . .mon frere.’ It
was a thing that issued from the
deepest recesses of my soul. A fan-
tasy, true, the projection of a lonely
child — my, our, parents had their
careers and little time for me — and I
knew it to be a fantasy. But I would
not let go.”

He paused. I said nothing.

“October 21, it was my birthday,
quite late at night. I had had a bad
dream and had gone to my parents’
room. The door was closed. But
through it, I could hear them discus-
sing their participation in certain ge-
netic experiments; it appeared that
my fether had contributed sperm to a
sperm bank, my mother released the
products of her womb to another
group. They did not make the connec-
tion; / did. And from that night, my
fantasy became a certainty. Yielded to
reason — reason, and intuition. Of
which there is a great deal within the
genes we share.”

I nodded. I had always assumed it
to be one of the intangibles they
aimed for. Intuition, at any rate, had
carried me safely through many bad
times. It was an old, trusted friend.

“From that night forward, my life
has been as surely guided as has
yours, towards the single purpose of
contacting you. I realised that I must.

to achieve this end, gain a position of
power, and of some autonomy, and I
geared my life to that goal. As I
slowly rose in the ranks of govern-
ment, new information became acces-
sible, information which confirmed by
suspicions. Scientists thought to have
defected, bodies found burned be-
yond recognition in wrecked cars,
anonymous actions against various
powers — I followed the elusive thread
of logic through it all, through this
welter of random information, unre-
lated facts. Until one day last
August — never mind the specific de-
tails; it was a warm, beautiful day — it
all gelled. I knew what I was up
against.”

He held up a finger. “Logic.”
Another. “Intuition.” Then:

“The primary urge was emotional:
simply to contact you. But as the
years went by, as I carried out my
duties, learning more and more about
the world we live in, and surmising
more and more about your activities,
things accumulated, things that I
needed to say to you, tell you. Things
you didn’t know.”

He looked deeply into my eyes.

“You are a machine. Do you know
that?”

I shrugged. Do machines shrug?

“An antique. A dinosaur. But a di-
nosaur capable of greatness.”

He looked off towards the mouth of
the alley, glanced at his watch.

“Finally, I gathered about me, by
means available to me at last, seven
men, seven top-flight agents, request-
ing absolute security. No reports, no-
thing in the central computers, no re-
cords of any kind — you have no idea
how difficult this was — and I sent out,
again by means available to me at
last, the information that I was run-
ning the government, knowing that,
by whatever circuitous process, it

AMAZING

would eventually reach you.”

He paused again.

“Consider my problem. I could not
compromise my position, a position I
felt essential to the very continuity of
the world. And I could not come to
you. Even your own people cannot
reach you. I had to force you to come
to me. So I set the process in motion,
and waited.”

Again, the watch.

“Tonight, as I knew you would, you
came. But my ofiBce is, of course,
bugged, and I could not talk.”

“So you sent your men to kill me.”

He seemed surprised that I could,
after so long, still sjjeak.

“They would have been suspicious
otherwise. And I had no doubts about
your capabilities.”

I nodded. I was a machine.

“I sent them out knowing that you
would elude them till the last possible
moment, while in the meantime I
made certain arrangements, very
complex arrangements, to absent my-
self without questions being asked — I
am, of course, under constant
surveillance — and meet you here.”

He glanced again towards the
mouth of the alley.

“I don’t know how long I can safely
stay away. The arrangements are in-
genious, but. ...”

He waved his hand.

“Questions will be asked. Those
men, for example. But I have pre-
pared myself for the questions; for, I
believe, every eventuality. I will sur-
vive. As, I suspect, will you.”

“So you penetrated the organisa-
tion, left yourself open, drew me out,
almost got me killed, risked every-
thing to come here — you still haven’t
told me why.”

“I thought I had.”

I shook my head and waited. Some
players never bring their queen out

till the last possible moment. And I
never felt safe as long as that queen
was out of play, sitting there, ready to
spring into action.

He hesitated, choosing his words
carefully. He had always chosen his
words carefully; you knew that, listen-
ing to him.

“As you yourself pointed out, we
are not so dissimilar.”

The quiet was deep, profound.

“You had a . . . teacher. A man
fond of Rimbaud.”

I nodded.

“Je suis un autre."

I had heard that before.

"The other. Existentialism italicised
it, made it Evil. ...”

He paused.

“It’s curious, something I’ve only
recently come to appreciate, but all
philosophy, and there are thousands
upon thousands of books to attest to
it, all philosophy deals with a few, a
very few, quite simple, but still ir-
reconcilable, questions.”

He waited.

“Irreconcilable because they are
opposites. Our foundation in Aristotle;
everything must be a or non-A. The
question of free will or predetermina-
tion, good and evil, the spiritual or
physical (or the essence and the
existence) — ”

He looked again at his watch.

“And then, of course, there is the
recurring question of means and ends.
Unlike the others, they are not always
opposite. A violent man dies vio-
lently, an eye fbr an eye, we are not
surprised. Or he may die quietly in
bed, violence long since past. ...”

“What are you saying?”

“I am saying that, while opposite,
we are yet alike. We aspire to the
same end. I, by intelligence and in-
tuition; you, by violence. Your
conditioning — ”

EXIGENCY & MARTIN HEIDEGGER

I am a creature possessed of free
will, with considerable personal
resources — ”

I stopped. It took me back to that
morning — well, really yesterday
morning — and a boat off the Gulf
Coast. A Slogan . A conditioned reflex.

Again, he waited.

“The . . . organisation you . . .
work for — ”

We had no name for ourselves;
there was no reason he should.

“ — It is the product of things which
no longer exist. The world has
changed. You, individually and collec-
tively, by your very existence and ac-
tions, endanger the very things to-
wards which you have strived.”

Now I waited. I wasn’t sure. I
knew I wouldn’t be sure. Not for a
long time.

The other.

Bits and pieces of Heidegger.

“You are asking me to go against
everything we stand for,” I said.

“No. I am asking you to be a man,
a free man. Unbounded by slogan and
prejudice. ...” He smiled, the sec-
ond time. “That’s all I have for you,”
he finally said. “That’s all I had to
say. I trust your intelligence to guide
you henceforth. It is an intelligence in
which, like my own, and for obvious
reasons, I have a great deal of trust. ”

He started down the alley.

“Just a minute,” I said.

He stopped, half turned.

“What would Heidegger say about
all this?”

He shrugged.

“W'ho knows? The exigency of cir-
cumstance, the desperate acts of de-
sperate men — those are not withing
his purview. He dwells in the realm
of purest thought. As, once, did I.”

I looked down at the bodies.

“Must be nice,” I said.

He looked down at the bodies.

“Yes. It is. But not for us. The
times in which we live — ”

He shrugged again and continued
down the alley.

I watched him go, the other, won-
dering what the future held. For him,
for me.

For all of us.

I SAT in a small room, facing a
man I knew as well as I knew any
man alive. Others sat close by.

There is an emergency signal,
never used, not meant to be used,
but provided nonetheless. After two
months underground, I had emerged,
at a certain place, a certain time. I
had made the signal and confirmed it,
setting into force a complex chain of
circumstance that finally brought me
here. To this room. Home base.

One measures a circle. . . .

“I want out,” I said.

“I see.” There was a construction
on the desk before him. Pieces ot an
erector set brought randomly to-
gether; I would later remember it.
“Would you care to say why?”

“Man is the animal that cries — ”

“Yes.”

“ — Or laughs.”

“So some would have it.”

“I have done neither.”

I waited. The faces watched me
closely. Also waiting.

“I don’t feel any further explanation
to be necessary,” I finally said.

“I see.” He reached out and
touched the construction. It trem-
bled, shaky, uncertain. “Would it
make any difference if I told you that
we know everything?”

I said nothing. The sense of revela-
tion was new to me, but recognisable.

“You carry within you a tiny trans-
mitter, surgically implanted in the
mastoid bone behind your left ear
when you were two years old. What

AMAZING

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you hear, we hear.

As we all, I thought, carry within us
the seeds of our own destruction. It
explained a great many things. I
thou^t of what my brother had said:
A machine. An intelligence machine,
a killing machine.

“I want it out,” I said.

“Yes. Yes, of course.” He took his
hand away from the construction,
from all transitory things. “It is to be
expected, of course, that sooner or
later the child will rebel against its
parents. ”

“I love you all,” I said quietly.

“Yes. Well.” I knew that this was as
difficult for him, for all of them, as for
me. “Freedon is your birthright. The
birthright of every man. We have
fou^t, and were -conceived, to
guarantee it to others. We can hardly
deny it to you.”

The others nodded.

No one spoke for several minutes.

I felt the sadness building inside
me, a slow death. I thought again of
the second directive. The continua-
tion of the species. ... I was the last.

“Will you come with me?" he said
after a moment.

We went out of the small, quiet
room and down a lengthy corridor,
the two of us, towards, I soon re-
alised, the medical complex.

We stopped before a bank of cur-
tained windows.

“I thought, before you left,” he said,
and rapped on the glass, “that you
should like to meet — ” (the curtains
swept aside) “ — your new family.
Your brothers and sisters.”

I looked down into the bassinets.
Tbere were twelve of them, perfect
and lovely as only babies can be.

“Or perhaps you would prefer to
think of them — the sperm is yours — as
sons and daughters.”

Something was stirring deep within

me, something I had never known be-
fore. Pieces. Bits and pieces.

Perhaps it was just for a time. Find
some answers. Come back.

Home.

“There are others, of course. Older.
But for security reasons — ”

He broke off and started down the
hall again.

I followed.

/ was not alone.

A room was waiting.

Two DAYS LATER, I StOod On the
harbor.

I was waiting for someone, a lab
technician I had been told, to finish
smearing bacteria on agar, or what-
ever it was that lab techs did these
days, and get me started on a journey
that would eventually take me, every-
thing quite proper, to the coast of
New England. He was already ten
minutes late.

They had removed the transmitter,
of course, under general anesthetic;
my head was yet bandaged. But they
had done something else. They had
built me an identity. (I hadn’t known
that was possible. “Oh, our
capabilities have advanced almost
geometrically,” the computer techni-
cian had said when I asked him about
it. Then he began to talk about tracer
loops, open leads, recall potential,
and I was lost.) Of course, , the fin-
gerprints wouldn’t match — I had
asked to retain my mobility — but the
voiceprint would — a calculated risk —
and it was all in the central computes.

So you see, it was not really me
waiting there on the dock.

It was John Green. Citizen John
Green.

A young man with blond hair, blue
eyes, eventually came along the dock.
He was dressed in jeans, a
windbreaker. At the outside, he was

EXIGENCY & MARTIN HEIDEGGER

eighteen. Was this. . . . No, of course
no. But it was a question that would
recur to me again and again in the fu-
ture parade of feces. No one had told
me how many there were.

“Mr. Green?” he said. “Sorry I’m
late.”

It was the first time anyone had
used the name.

“Yes,” I said. “You my ticket out of
here?”

“Right.” The boy looked closely at
me. “Haven’t seen you around before.
You new?”

“Right.” The boy looked closely at
me.

I didn’t know the answer.

“No,” I finally said. “I’m . . . not
new. ”

“Oh.” Comprehension dawned in
his eyes. “Oh,” he said again, and
there was respect in his voice.

For this youth, really but little
younger than myself, I was. History.
And History, though useless, was ac-
corded respect.

We climbed into the boat and
shoved off. After a while, I looked
back.

At first, I thought it was raining.

I lifted a finger, touched it to the
comer of my eye, took the finger
away and looked.

They were tears.

Salt, like the very waters through
which we passed.

I thought of the revelation bom in
that dark alley, my picture of the
world, the jigsaw pieces, scattered to
the winds.

"Herr Heidegger,” I said softly to
those same winds.

He was dead. I was alive.

“Herr Heidegger, I am crying.”

The winds bore me no answer. I
began to wonder if there were an-
swers.

Tlie small boat bore steadily out to
sea, carrying me away from the past
to — ^what?

I remembered the impression of
being, for my young skipper. History.
What did History become? what was
its Sein?

Not the future.

Two things came to my mind then,
two things whose source I was not to
know for six years, blotting out all
else.

The first was a phrase: The sempit-
ernal present.

The second was a word. It shim-
mered in the closed, close space of
my mind like St. Elmo’s fire, that
Captain Ahab quenched with his fist;

Apotheosis.

— ^James Sallis

ON SALE IN FANTASTIC (Feb.)

THE PURSLIT OF THE UMBRELLA by .MARVIN KAYE. A SENSE OF DISASTER by CHRISTOPHER ANVIL.
THE BIRDS OF THE .MOON by USA TUTTLE. DAYS OF STONE bv JACK DANN. 'HVO SORT-OF ADVEN-
TURES by OVA HA.MLET. THE LOSER AT SOLITAIRE by PAUL DAVID NOVITSKI. THE WIZARD OF
DEATH by PAUL HALPLNE. THE HUNTER by ROBERT ADAMS.

AMAZING

GREEN THUMB

Herewith a vignette from the author of the Darkover series . . .

MARION ZIMMER BRADLEY

A. SPACESHIP grounded on an alien
planet is worse than an old-fashioned
windjammer becalmed on a windless
ocean. The crewmen sit around all
day and get on each other’s nerves.
And when, beyond the shuttered
viewports, tall sinister aliens with
claws and yellow eyes, like great in-
telligent tigers, are patrolling with
drawn weapons, the atmosphere in-
side gets nerve-racking.

The bells rang, and Tom Stewart,
apprentice in the “green room,”
turned from a rack of hydroponic
tanks. All afternoon, checking tanks
for mold and fungus, adding the tiny
amounts of chemicals that made the
plants grow, he had carried on as if
the ship were out in space where it
belonged. Even on this strange hos-
tile world, with a green sun and tall
catlike forms keeping them impris-
oned inside, they had to eat. Science,
which could do almost anything,
couldn’t make men enjoy living on a
diet of vitamin pills.

Besides, the green leaved plants
gave off oxygen, and purified the air
of carbon dioxide. So the Hydroponics
Expert wasn’t exactly a nobody on the
ship. But for some reason, people
thought it was funny — that among all
the mathematicians and engineers and
navigators and experts, there should
be an apprentice gardener whose
business was tomatoes and pumpkins
and lettuce and herbs for seasoning
bland rations. And Tom himself — the
only man aboard who couldn’t plot a
planetary orbit to save his life —
seemed even funnier. He was always

GREEN THUMB

good for a laugh — even when, like
now, there wasn’t much to laugh at.

Nervous men, penned up and in
danger, have to laugh at something.
Tom knew this, but it didn’t help. He
wished he could stay here, among the
fresh green leaf-smells, but the day’s
ration of salad greens and herbs had
been turned over to the cook, and
there was nothing to do but go along
to the wardroom.

He buttoned up his tunic,
straightened his uniform cap, then
turned back at a faint “Miaow!” and
made a dash for the small, black,
furry body enthusiastically rooting in
one of the herb boxes. He grabbed
the cat up.

“Hey, Stinker,” he admonished,
“you get that stuff by ration.” But he
picked an extra sprig of the fragrant
stuff, watched the cat bat it around
with wriggles of pleasure, then, the
animal under one arm, left the green
room and deposited the cat in the
cook’s quarters :

“Here, I found him in the plant
room again.”

The cook — he held four degrees in
nutrition and chemical engineering —
took the little creature. “Thanks,
Greenthumb.” Tom winced at the
unwelcome nickname. “He sure likes
that place.” He scratched the cat’s
ears, and then deposited it in the
storeroom. Chemical pesticides were
forbidden in a closed-air system,
which meant the cat was worth ninety
times his weight in rations, keeping
down stray mice or varmints.

“Any new experimental crops r

Tried planting those airborne seeds
they got in the air samples here T the
cook asked. “Who knows, it might be
good to flavor spaghetti. Or — ” he
chuckled, “maybe when we meet the
turnip men from the stars, you can
grow them some relatives ”

In the wardroom, the officers and
other apprentices were • already
gathered, and as Tom went to his
place, the second officer looked up
and growled “Hey, Greenthumb — you
have to grow so much garlic? It gets
in the air system.”

Tom said patiently “It’s a better
source of vitamin C, for its size, than
any other vegetable. ” He took his seat
next to his Chief, and said “Sir, the
cook’s — I mean, the Dietetic En-
gineer’s cat was in the green room
again.”

The officer said morosely “I’ve got
more on my mind than a few
messed-up leaves. Maybe we ought to
send Stinker out to negotiate with his
big brothers outside — we’re not get-
ting anywhere.” His grim face turned
to the shuttered viewport, and every
officer remembered the faces of he
aliens; whiskered, feline, grim.

The Second Officer said, “Why
can’t they realize we mean them no
harm r All we want is an opportunity
to repair the hull shafts — but we have
to do it outside the ship.”

The Captain said, “The language
engineers are working on their
sounds, but we haven’t gotten to first
base.” He snorted. “And everytime
anyone puts his nose out, they drive
us back in. We’ve offered gifts,
everything — blast it, if we hang
around much longer, we’ll have to
compute our whole course again to
allow for star-drift.” He put a fork in
his food and scowled. “Hey, Green-
thumb, why don’t your tomatoes ever
taste like the home-grown kind, or
are you too busy chasing cats? Why

not go out and say ‘Scat’ to those —
those overgrown pussycats out there r ’

Tom went to check the hydroponics
once more before bedtime; He
opened a viewport shutter momentar-
ily, looking out at the green sunset
and the prowling, grey-furred forms;
sighed, and .went to repair the dam-
age done by the scratching Stinker —
crushed leaves, tom stems that gave
off a bittersweet smell in the fresh
green air. He stopped, the hair rising
suddenly on his forearms, a wild sur-
mise yeasting up in him. He bent to
smell the herb.

Half an hour later, a boyish form
slipped, in the darkness, from the un-
guarded space-lock. They can prob-
ably see in the dark like— like cats, he
thought, quaking, and they’re big as
tigers. If I’m wrong . . . but he re-
fused to think about that. He shrank
as the huge feline forms, silent on
padded feet, suddenly surrounded
him, their yellow eyes gleaming. He
held out his hand. . . .

“Captain,” said Tom, appearing at
the lock between his two grey-furred
escorts, “They’re ready to negotiate,
so get your language engineers
ready.” The huge aliens purred agree-
ment, their paws held out, weapon-
less, claws sheathed, in a peaceful
gesture.

“But how did you do it. Green-
thumb r ’ the Captain asked, later, as
they listened to the sound of rivets
and machines working on the dam-
aged hull. “All our gifts — they just
turned up their noses and sniffed!”

Tom chuckled softly. “They sniffed
at this, too,” he said. “Give Stinker
the credit, because he’s the one
who’ll go on short rations for a while.
They’re big cats — but they just loved
his catnip!”

— Marion Zimmer Bradley

AMAZING

A HIGH NEGATIVE
CORRELATION

If you’ve recovered from VoVs “You’ve Come A Long Way, Baby”
(May), you might want to try this one; it has, she says, “a pretty cheery
ending, for me. Alas, I’m a dyed-in-the-dacron cynic ...”

VOL HALDEMAN

D, . Wagman looked me over sharp-
ly. He didn’t like my suit, my wootz
beads, my cherished self?

“We are — harrumph — gratified to
have a colleague visit and tour our in-
stallation,” the good doctor greeted
me sourly. “Our laboratory has made
numerous discoveries that have been
virtually ignored. I believe you’ll be
very interested to see how our work
is progressing.”

I smiled free and easy at the old
pundit. Frankly, I thought he’d been
puttering around for years on the tail
ends of renewable grants, but as a
practitioner of the art I knew just
what he needed from me. These old-
style scientists — workhorses of the
business, of course — demanded a re-
sponse performance of kudos and
plaudits. I spun it out.

“Overjoyed to visualize your semi-
nal research by direct perception,” I
told him. “What happened to the ban
on surveillance that was standard pro-
tocol for your industry r ’

“That has been a problem in the
past,” Dr. Wagman said stifily. “Some
rf our allegedly objective colleagues
represented themselves as embarras-
sed or leery of our method because
we use Homo sapiens as our subject. I
have decided, however, to p)ermit oc-
casional observation of our procedures
in order to promogulate our results.”

I read that loud and clear; the man
needed lucre. Well, he might have
something usefijl to tell me. I could
maybe scoop the profession on a
whole new technique, a panacea of
the mind. We were brothers under
the skin. I needed lucre, too.

The white-coated savant fumbled
ceremoniously with an antique collec-
tion of metal keys and finally
suceeded in unlocking a door. He
could’ve knocked; there was a lab
flunky not two feet inside, but he had
to do his act. High ego strength.
Anyway, it was the animal lab, people
in cages, just like the buzz. The lab
flunky had something to say.

“Dr. Wagman, I think we can
breed Snowball — er, #1059 — today.
The cervical smear tests high in glu-
cose and is suggestive of fertility this
morning.” He had a nice delivery,
straight out of a 1970’s training film,
just the right touch of obsequious-
ness. I like to see people who are
good at their jobs. I winged a smile
his way.

Wagman started to get all excited.
He had to tell me all about it. “This
subject is a simple schizophrenic,”' he
said happily. “The crossmatch is with
#1934, a strong catatonic schizo-
phrenic. #1934 can become very an-
tagonistic, belligerent, violent, esp>e-
cially if he senses excitement. It

A HIGH NEGATIVE CORRELATION

throws him into a frenzy.”

I exp)ected the old boy to rub his
hands in gleeful anticipation, but he
restrained himself somehow. The lab
flunky went down the row. It filtered
through to me that they were going to
bring this bad dude to old Snowball
here and I backed away. The old man
was putting out quite a few watts of
tizzy, enough to set the beast off
maybe.

“Hey, uh, couldn’t old Snowball
meet this match on his own terri-
tory?’

“No, we’ve had some experiments
ruined that way.” Wagman shook his
head. “The male is more likely to at-
tack than breed if he’s on his home
ground. Or the female aborts. Anxiety
can become a confounding variable
that appears to alter the results of the
genetic crossing, too.”

I hung well back but they handled
it okay. The bad dude was prodded
along the line until he came to the
open cage, then he ducked into it.
The lab flunky shut the door, locked
it up tight. We all stood there and
watched through the bars.

“Hey,” I said judiciously, “where’s
the aberrant act? That stud’s poking
and fumbling just like my dumb
cousin Ronnie. Sure he’s schizzy?’

“Yes, you’ll see the disruptions in
his behavior. He cannot block out ex-
traneous stimuli; everything hits him
at once and with equal force. He’ll
become overwhelmed by sensations
and strike out or withdraw. It’ll take a
good while to accomplish the breed-
ing.”

“^Vhy bother?’ The old man looked
like I had ruffled his feathers. I al-
tered my tone two points towards
idolatry, kept on with my query. “I
mean, why not take a leaf from The
Cattleman s Journal and slip it to her
in a syringe ?’

Another thing occured to me, ap-
ropos of my dumb cousin Ronnie.
“Besides, schizzies perseverate. Sup-
pose he really gets into humping?
How’re you going to damp his pile,
cramp his style ?’

The old professor went into a lec-
ture. “Harrumph! Psychoses are not,
contrary to widespread belief, strictly
a defective biochemical process. Nor
are they simply a function of a faulty
environment. No! We are convinced
mental illness is a product of both fac-
tors. We can only identify the causes
by carefully eliminating one factor at a
time. We did try some crossmatches
by artificial insemination but the re-
sulting psychoses were disapointing.
We found we needed that minor en-
vironmental influence or we would
experience a decrease in the strength
of the response. We returned to the
natural breeding process.”

Also more fun to watch, you old
goat, I thought. But he was right
about it taking a long time. The male
had backed off and was holding his
head in his hands. Snowball was pat-
ting his face and stroking his hair.

“What’s she doing?’

“Nothing statistically signifigant.
The Kolmogorov-Smifnov goodness-
of-fit two sample test retains the null
hypothesis. But come along here,”
Wagman invited. “I’ll show you one
of our first successes.”

I cast one lingering glance back at
old Snowball. For a lab critter, she
was built pretty nice. When she hun-
kered down over that stud, I could
see where she got her nickname.

My host led me down a corridor to
an eye room. It had an old-fashioned
one-way glass wall, but I guessed you
had to make do with obsolete equip-
ment out here in the boonies. I
squinted, focused through it, ig-unted.

“This is an example of another

AMAZING

series of experiments. We are produc-
ing autistic children here. They’re
separated from their mothers at birth
and raised in a specially programmed
environment. It’s unpredictacle rather
than entirely aversive, uncertain :
deafening noises, withholding
nourishment, rocking and shaking the
cage, and so on. This little fellow is
coming along fine.”

“Feeh!” I replied. The subject in
question was a tow-headed little boy
about four years old. He was rocking
rhythmically and sucking his thumb.
The thumb was stripped bare of flesh,

I could see the tendons and bones.
He wasn’t seeing anything through his
open eyes. I itched to get my
therapuetics on him, even though
kiddie konsultations weren’t my field.

Wagman looked satisfied. “His par-
ents were both manic-depressives,”
he told me. “I think this crossmatch
turned out very nicely.”

I was beginning to get the drift.
This was a man with a goal-object.
Making crazies was his trip. No won-
der he’d never let anyone in for a
look-see; the apa would toss him out,
banish his ass to a midwestern ag-
ricultural school and set him to
psychoanalyzing the chickens. Still,
on mature reflection, nuts were my
business. If I could ^im onto his pro-
tocol for production, maybe I could
reverse the process and hatch a cure.
Save mankind. Heal the sick. All that.
I adjusted my mein accordingly.

“Well, sure,” I agreed. “Chances
are your research’ll pin down the root
causes of psychoses. When you know
how to put a loony together, you’ll
know how to sort one out. Hens to
Athens, you’re doing a lot better at
making them than my own exalted
profession is doing at curing them.”

I must have been a shade off on my
connotations. The old boy turned dark

red and looked like he wanted to spit.

“These psychotics are a valuable re-
source for imagination and creativity,”
he sputtered. “I want to make more
of them, not cure the few we have!”

The outburst twitched the lab ani-
mals. I could hear bars rattle on the
cages behind us. Whines and snarls
sounded too close for comfort. It mes-
sed the old man’s mind not at all. He
kept riglit on shouting at me.

“Look! Come here! I’ll show you
my most important project and, then
maybe you’ll understand.” He pulled
me away.

“We’ve had a great deal of trouble
with this. We took a colony of as-
sorted pyschotics, not just garden-
variety psychotics but good strong nat-
urals, isolated them. We have a
matched group of control animals in
individual cages. I like correlation,”
he said abruptly. “It’s such a useful
statistic; it’ll pull almost any research
out of the dung heap, but this time,
nothing. Chi Square, nothing.”

I wasn’t following his brainwork,
but I followed his body further down
the corrider.

“We provided this environment,”
he gestured, stopping at an observa-
tion port. I took a look. “It is suitable
for simple food gathering and a mildly
nomadic existence. These were our
best, our most highly psychotic indi-
viduals. All ruined, all wasted! We
expected they would show initiative,
creativity, innovations, that they
would produce a whole new exciting
society with great surreal art and fan-
tastic literature and new scientific in-
ventions out of their unusual and ex-
citing perceptions. Maybe even some
novel ideas for conflict strategies, the
government has some lovely money
for war experimentation ...”

The observation port was a mag-
nifier. I thought I recognized my old
(cont. on page 81)
75

A HIGH NEGATIVE CORRELATION

THE MAN WHO WASN’T
THERE

WILLIAM F. TEMPLE

William F. Temple, author of the classic Four-Sided Triangle, offers a
short story about hypnotism and an experiment’s unforeseen develop-
ments . . .

Illustrated by JOE STATON

Trevor looked as though he had
died in his sleep many hours ago. He
was as stiffly wooden as the Jacobean
chair supporting him. His eyes were
closed, his mouth open — in the o
which so often shapes the last gasp.

Dale, who probably feared ridicule
more than death, thought: Shaw will
never get me looking like that.

This was Shaw’s apartment. Every-
thing in it except the telephone could
conceivably have been touched by
James the First. Shaw was very rich;
therefore leisured. He had no wife
and no problems except the perennial
one : how to amuse oneself.

Amateur hypnotism was the current
answer.

“He’s now in deep trance,” Shaw
whispered. Then, annoyed by the
lapse which proclaimed his inexperi-
ence, for Trevor couldn’t be
awakened except by command, he
added loudly: “And ready to accept
post-hypnotic suggestion.”

Dale observed : “I’d always thought
deep trance was a condition pf com-
plete relaxation. Trev looks more like
a case of rigor mortis.”

Shaw, who thought the same, said,
still loudly : “It affects different per-
sons in different ways.”

And hoped it did.

He went on : “We had some fun
with the last guy I did this to — Bill
Benson. Know him r ’

“The broker r ’

“No, no — the pro golfer. I told him
that when he woke up he’d be a
chimpanzef. Everyone fed him
peanuts. Laugh! And, boy, did he
scratch for those fleas!”

Dale produced a smile as a tribute
to the rich who could be cruel, vul-
gar, stupid — and useful. As a compen-
sating tribute to good taste, he
suggested : “Let’s try something more
subtle with Trev . . . .Make him think
I’m not here, not in the room.”

“Could be amusing,” Shaw con-
ceded. “Okay, then. Now listen care-
fully, Trevor.” He enjoyed this bit. It
made him sound like a mastermind.
By comparison, detailing his order to
a waiter was plain ordinary: anyone
could do that. “Our friend Dale has
been called away. He’s gone. You will
wake up when I have counted to
three. Exactly ten minutes after that,
you will fall asleep again. During
those ten minutes you will talk to me
but not to Dale, because he is not
here. Do you understand? Answer
now. ”

AMAZING

Shaw’s tones were authoritative and
his frown was meant to be, but it be-
trayed some doubt.

The doubt was allayed. Trevor’s lips
moved, though not much.

“I understand.” A toneless echo.

“Good.” Shaw re-directed the
frown at his gold wristwatch. “I shall
now count to three. On the word
‘three’ you will wake up. One . . .
Two . . . Three.”

Trevor opened his eyes, gave a
huge yawn which relaxed him, then
looked around slowly identifying his
surroundings.

“Pardon me. Guess I just dozed off.
What were you saying, Shaw T

“I said I’d hate to work for Cad-
man’s.”

“You’d hate to work for anybody,”
said Trevor. “Where’s Dale

“That’s the point. The Cadman lab
phoned and wanted him in a hurry.”

“Don’t they ever let him off the
hook, poor guyf Isn’t he entitled to
any private life ? Why doesn’t he get
another job r ’

Dale, looking on, smiled wrily. He
had asked himself those questions
often enough. He was a research
physicist at Cadman ’s and they drove
him hard. This was the first time in
months he’d been a member of a
threesome which wasn’t discussing
electronics.

Aloud, he said : “I’m open to offers,
Trevor.”

Trevor was a self-made, indepen-
dent manufacturer of garbage disposal
units. He ignored the suggestion and
Dale with it. It seemed he hadn’t
heard it.

Shaw, mastermind, smiled a faint
but complacent smile.

Dale tried again. “Can I get you
another whiskey, Trevor ?’

Trevor looked bewildered but not
by Dale’s query. He was staring at

THE MAN WHO WASN’T THERE

the paneled oak door.

“I’m not over there. I’m right here,
Trevor,’’ said Dale and slipped an
aside to Shaw; “Gosh, you’ve re-
formed him!”

Trevor was rising uncertainly to his
feet, looking a bit white.

Shaw reflected the uncertainty. He
was still a little scared about the un-
known fringes of this hypnotism
game. It was like electricity : you used
it, not knowing what it was, and if
you weren’t careful things could go
wrong.

He asked jerkily : “Anything the
matter, Trevor r’

“That man over there. Do you
know him r ’

“What manf Where? I don’t see
anyone.”

Trevor couldn’t take his eyes off the
man who wasn’t there.

He pointed to a spot just inside the
door. “There, for Pete’s sake. He’s
looking at us.”

Shaw glanced at Dale and shrug-
ged.

He said: “Take it easy, Trev. Sit
down and 111 fix you another drink.”

Trevor put a hand to his mouth.
“I’m sure he walked clean through
that door,” he whispered through his
fingers. “Is it a ghost? Is this room
haunted, Shawr’

“Good heavens, no, man.”

All the same, Shaw wondered
briefly about that carved oak chest.
The legend sold with it was that a
priest once hid in it and suffocated
there.

Dale said : “There’s something odd
here, Shaw. Trev can’t see me. That
worked, all right. But you’ve given
him the illusion that he’s seeing
someone else. Ask him what the fel-
low looks like.”

Shaw was glad to take direction
now.

“What does this man look like,

1 revor r

But Trevor was absorbedly listening
to the subject of the inquiry.

“I get you,” he said presently. And
then: “Yes, it makes sense.”

“WTiat — ” began Shaw, but Trevor
shushed him. “Let me heard this,” he
said.

Shaw shrugged again and reached
for the decanter. He refilled Dale’s
crystal tumbler, then his own. He
raised his glass. Pink light from a
winter sun fallen low in tbe west ran
and shone a moment in its handcut
channels.

“To our unknown guest.”

“May he remember to knock next
time,” Dale responded.

They sipped their drinks, waiting
for the end of the strange commu-
nion.

Eighteen floors below the wide
double-glazed windows, the folk of
the twentieth century moved along
the shadowed street to familiar goals,
homebound or pleasure-bound,
spellbound or muscle-bound.

Against the wall-space between the
windows the grandfather clock stood
calmly ticking their lives away. It was
far into its third century of such office
and men meant less than the comings
and goings of so many furniture bee-
tles.

Dale thought about that and shiv-
ered suddenly.

Shaw noticed and said : “Yes,
there’s a draft from under the door.
I’ve told them about it and they still
haven’t fixed it.”

At last, Trevor said . “Thanks for
taking such trouble to explain, Malak.
I’m glad to have made your acquain-
tance. Goodbye. Goodbye.”

He made a ferewell salute at no-
body.

Sbaw poured a whiskey and handed

AMAZING

it to him. “And now maybe you’ll take
the trouble to explain to us.”

“To us ?’ Trevor’s eyebrows lifted.

“To me,” said Shaw, sidestepping
complications.

Trevor took a mouthful, savored it,
swallowed it.

“Makat is a Plutonian. That’s the
short explanation.”

Shaw did a double take, partly to
amuse Dale, partly because he
couldn’t help it.

“Not his fault, poor devil,” he said.
“Me, I’m a Scorpio man — born
lucky.”

“Born ignorant,” said Trevor.
“Pluto’s a planet— our outermost one,
and frozen at that. Makat comes from
it.”

“Nice of him to drop in hke that.”

“Oh, he’s here all of the time.
Thousands of Plutonians are. It’s their
job to keep an eye on us.”

“Why, what have we done r ’

“Enough to worry them about what
we might do next. Especially if we
ever reached Pluto. They think we’re
hopelessly mad, you know.”

“Do they, indeed? I suppose this
one was just humoring you r’

“He wanted to learn why I could
see him. Although they’re moving
among us every day, normally they’re
invisible to us. That’s because they
don’t want us to know they exist.”

Shaw winked his offside eye at
Dale, then said : “That seems illogical
to me, Trev. If they’re invisible, we
shouldn’t know they existed, anyhow,
whether they cared about it or not.”

‘The point is, Shaw, that they’re
not really invisible. They put all Earth-
men under mass hypnosis long ago
and suggested we couldn’t see or hear
them.”

Dale exploded into laughter at the
expression on Shaw’s face.

‘They beat you to it, old man.”

Shaw grimaced and finished his
drink.

“So Plutonians watch us because
they think we’re crazy and dangerous.
But they aren’t, of course. They
merely walk through solid doors.”

“If you knew half as much about
physics as you do about nightclubs,”
said Trevor crushingly, “you’d be
aware that nothing — no, nothing, not
even your head — is solid. Pity Dale
isn’t here to explain why. Plutonians
know all about interpenetrating fields
of force. They know all about us too.
They have to. That includes you and
me personally, and Dale. For in-
stance, they know that you practice
hypnotism and that Dale’s working on
hysteresis.”

Dale laughed again. “Okay, Trev,
that does it. You win. You can stop
kidding us now. Shaw, you’re a flop
as a hypnotist. Your spell didn’t take.
The biters have been bit.”

Shaw regarded Trevor uncertainly.
He wasn’t used to being taken for a
ride. It had always been the other
way around. An unfamiliar feeling
called chagrin touched his self-
possession. It wasn’t pleasant. The
warm womb of his world seemed to
let in a cold, sudden, and disburbing
draft. He was reminded that there
were unpredictable people whose re-
spect his money couldn’t buy. Trevor
was one. Death is another, added a
mouthless voice in his head.

‘Trevor — ” Shaw broke off.

For Trevor had started visibly and
was now looking towards the door
again. He seemed to be listening. His
eyes grew round with shock and his
cheeks paled.

That wasn’t acting. If Trevor were
kidding anyone it was only Trevor.
And he was doing it thoroughly. He
had begun to tremble and his knee-
joints were slackening.

THE MAN WHO WASN’T THERE

He sank back into his chair.

“No, no,” he protested with small
force. “No, Malak — please.”

Tears welled in his eyes.

“Hell, what have I doner’ Shaw
muttered, and went to him. “Trevor,
what is it ? What’s wrong r ’

Dale hovered around them, alert,
watching, considering.

Trevor raised a distressed face to
Shaw. He blinked. A tear trembled,
then ran swiftly down to his jaw.

He said in a weak little voice :
“Malak says he’s sorry but I must die
now. ”

“Whatr’ Shaw gripped Trevor’s
shoulders. “Snap out of it, Trev, This
is all nonsense, you know.”

The cowed voice went on : “Malak’s
chief has been looking into it. He
concludes that your hypnotic sugges-
tion affecting my visual and auditory
senses erased their earlier parallel
suggestion. And so I have seen a
Plutonian, and know Plutonians exist,
and I could tell other Earthmen about
them. And that must not be allowed
to happen and therefore I must ...”

The voice passed into a mere sigh-
ing sound as Trevor’s eyes closed. His
body became very still, as though it
were made of wocxl — like the chair.

Shaw stared at him. “My God, is
he really — r’

“No, he’s not dead,” said Dale.
“Look at your watch.”

Shaw looked. Precisely ten minutes
had passed since he counted to three
and awakened Trevor. Now he re-
membered.

“Of course,” he said, with relief.
“He’s relapsed into trance, as per or-
ders. Right on the dot, too. Whew! It
had me worried. Dale. I didn’t bar-
gain for all that dream stuff to come
floating up from his subconscious.
Some fantasy, that.”

“It sure was. If I might raise a

point — I was under the impression
that hypnotized subjects remained
completely unaware that they’d been
hypnotized. Yet Trev knew that you
had hypnotized him. Is that in the
book r’

“Theoretically, no. First time it’s
happened to anyone that I know of.
By the way, what was that thing he
said you were working on r ’

“Hysteresis,” said Dale. “It’s an ef-
fect of delayed magnetism. I’m study-
ing a possible application . . . Good
lord. I’ve never told a soul about it,
not even at the lab ”

Both men looked at each other and
found no comment.

“This has gone far enough,” Shaw
decided. “I’ll wake him now. Listen,
Trevor, I’m going to count to three.
On the word ‘three’ you will wake up.
Do you understand r ’

Trevor sat corpse-like and silent.

“Answer now,” Shaw pressed.

No response of any kind.

“Trevor, can you hear me r ’

No answer.

Dale put his hand on Trevor’s
forehead, frowned, then listened for
his breathing. He began to look wor-
ried and laid two fingers on Trevor’s
wrist.

“All right?’ Shaw’s wish was father
to the thought.

“Can’t detect his pulse,” said Dale,
tightly. He unbuttoned Trevor’s shirt
and felt for his heart.

He withdrew his hand suddenly.
“He’s dead,” he said.

Shaw couldn’t or wouldn’t believe
it — until he checked. Then he was
overcome. Dale poured him another
whiskey. Shaw couldn’t touch it.

Agitatedly, he asked : “Dale, do you
think I’m responsible for this r ’

“Of course not. It was a heart at-
tack, I should think.”

“Yes, but . . . Maybe it was

AMAZING

brought on by accepting the idea that
he was going to die. Sort of . . . like
witch-doctors ...”

Shaw trailed off, confused, misera-
ble.

“Well, if it were, you didn’t give
him the idea, so don’t blame yourself
Lord knows where he got it from.
Some self-induced hallucination, I
suppose. He may have had a brain
tumor — who knows? Look, have that
drink. You’ll feel better. Then I’ll ring
his doctor.”

"Malak,” said Shaw. “How did he
invent a name like that ?’

Dale shrugged. “Something re-
membered from science-fiction,
perhaps. It’s the hysteresis bit that
puzzles me most. I guess it must have
been telepathy. They say the tele-

A High Negative (cont. from page 75)
psychology of personality instructor
down there. He had a big love-hate
thing for grandmotherly types, but
not a shred of creativity in his perver-
sions. No wonder Wagman wasn’t get-
ting results.

“Harrumph! They don’t fight, they
don’t invent, they don’t create. They
live together quietly and peacably. I
don’t understand it,” the old man said
angrily.

I felt a spark of interest growing
deep in my skullbone.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Hey!
Your nuts down there are responding
appropriately. Look at that! They’re
helping each other, caring for each
other, demonstrating visible warmth
and affection. Look, that man’s got his
arm around that woman and he isn’t
throwing her to the ground and rap-
ing her. There! That child interrupted
those adults and didn’t get stoned.
Good lord, there’s even an old person
down there, must be sixty if he’s a
day, and they suffer him to live r
Good Freud, man, what therapy did

THE MAN WHO WASN’T THERE

pathic faculty becomes more apparent
if the subject’s hyppotized, don’t
they r ’

Shaw nodded absently. “Telepathy
exists. Little doubt about it.” He
pondered, then added quietly: “Sup-
posing Malak exists too r’

“That’s hardly likely,” said Dale,
and tried to laugh. He made only a
mirthless sound. There was nothing to
laugh at.

“If he does,” Shaw pursued, “he
might consider that we know too
much about Plutonians now. Just like
Trevor. And then — ”

There was a cold draft from the
door. Both men felt it and looked that
way.

— William F. Temple

you use? This is revolutionary! Tell,
tell!”

“That’s just it,” Wagman said
grumpily. “We just left them alone.
We left them to get on as best they
could. The incidence of psychotic be-
haviors should be phenomenal. Yet
this group — our very best — is behav-
ing normally. It’s a dismal failure, a
high negative correlation.”

I grabbed the old fart by the lab
coat. “You mean to tell me you did
nothing to treat these subjects r No
analysis? No client-centered therapy?
No existentialism? Medication?
Thorazine, electroshock, prefrontal
lobotomy? Nothing? They’ve cured
each other r ’

“That is exactly the problem.”

I composed myself with an effort.
My entire career field would be worth
so much bat-shit if this got out.

“I’ve got it,” I said finally. “Change
your criteria. What they’re doing is
definitely insane!”

— VoL Haldeman

WHAT ARE FRIENDS FOR?

With friends like these, the Thropo didn’t need enemies . . . fortu-
nately . . .

EILEEN GUNN

Illustrated by RODAK

The day the new thropo hits
Pomona, me and the guys lay a cher-
ry bomb on him, just to show we’re
glad he came.

Then when he comes down from
the palm tree (heyzus, can those
snakeheads jump), we tell him it’s a,
uh, local custom.

“Most ho.spitable.” he says. “Must
show you a tew of our customs some
day.” The tentacles where his head
should be are wriggling like crazy. He
looks like a clothespin wearing a nest
of snakes, and he sounds like a muc-
ken 3\' announcer.

He sits down next to us on the curb
and starts asking what we do, where
we live, all the old jakweb.

We got a couple hours to kill before
we hit the condo we been casing, so
we scag him around a while. I say I
test birth control shots. Chico says
he’s an assistant breather for DivAir-
Qual. You know.

The thropo swallows everything.
Doesn’t blink an eye. (And he’s got a
few extra eyes to blink.) His tentacles
quiet down while he listens. After a
while the joke bennies and we burn
it. Then we just sit around for a
couple minutes and look at each
other. Finally the thropo gets up and
he shakes himself off like a dog and

he says, “Well, you young people
seem to have a very high collective
imagination index. Just the sort of
thing I’ve been looking for. Have a
pleasant afternoon.” Then he walks
off

Later on, after we finish the job
(which goes off smooth as high grade
hash), we catch him down to Paco’s
store on the corner. He’s over by the
magazine rack, checking out the shin-
nies, taking notes on a little pocket
corder. I don’t get what he’s saying,
but he looks pretty worked up for a
snakehead.

Allie pokes me in the back. “Hey,”
she says, “you think they go for that
kind of stuff? I thought they laid eggs
or something.”

“I dunno,” I say. Maybe he’s just
finding out what he’s missing.”

“We ought to get old Margie on his
ass,” says Chico. “She’d teach him a
thing or two.”

“Shit,” says Allie, “even Margie
wouldn’t do it with a snakehead.”

Then he sees us, and all his little
tentacles wave. We kind of look at
each other. 'Then we figure what the
hell and go over. “A must unusual
concept,” says the thropo as we get
closer. “Portraying the distribution of
genetic information in a social context

AMAZING

to stimulate the economy.”

We look at each other again. “You
want stimulating, you should see the
live shows down on South Garey,”
says Allie.

‘That would be most instructive,”
says the thropo. “Perhaps you would
all like to accomp)any me r ’

“Shit, man,” says Chico,” it costs
ten bucks to get in.”

“My discretionary fund was in-
tended for such contingencies,” says
the thropo. We just look at him, and
he says, “My treat.”

So pretty soon we’re sitting in the
Pink Flamenco on South Garey,
around these tables with bug candles
on them, and I’m thinking that this is
a pretty screwy thing to be doing,
going to a skinshow with a snakehead.
The other thropos, they come sniffing
around, ask you a few questions, and
you give them all the wrong answers.
After a while they go away, whether
we fool them or not.

But fuck ’em, I say, with their
questions and their chnics and their
rules and regulations. Sign up here,
look over there, pee into this, cough,
and let’s have a sample of your blood.

I don’t see where that gets anybody.
And it was the same with the
government, before the invasion. I
mean, a lot of people were really
racked out when the snakeheads took
over, and a lot of other people said it
was a good thing, but to me it’s all
politics, and whether it’s snakeheads
or shitheads don’t make much dif-
ference. So when they send their
thropos around asking a lot of dumb-
ass questions like a bunch of snakey^
little missionaries, I like to give them
a hard time. And I don’t really under-
stand what I’m doing at the old
Flamenco with the new thropo, if you
see what I mean.

Just as I’m thinking all this, the

WHAT ARE FRIENDS FOR?

show starts. The same tired old farts
doing the same tired old numbers
they was doing when me and Allie
used to sneak in as kids. So we’re
whistling and yelling and throwing
condoms and popcorn at the stage.
Then I look over at the thropo, who is
sitting next to me, and see that he’s
taking notes again on his corder.

“What do you use all that stuff for
anyway,’’ I say.

"Well,” says the thropo, “most of it
goes strai^t into the central proces-
sor for reduction and comparative
analysis. Be used later in your species
evaluation.”

“Oh,” I say. The double-jointed
brother-and-sister act is on stage now,
so I return my attention to the show.
The thropo goes on snuffhng into his
corder.

When the DJs are through, I start
wondering what the thropo means.
Our species evaluation f “What
species evaluation r ’ I say.

“Evaluation by our population con-
trol board,” he says. “Individuals
selected will be transferred to an un-
occupied planet. More than enough to
go around — hardly seems worth ren-
ovating this one.”

I am for the moment speechless.

But the thropo’s not. “You and your
friends have, if I may say so, an excel-
lent chance of being transferred, for
your genetic variety ratings are good,
your collective imagination score is
high, and you demonstrate ability to
survive in the face of a hostile envi-
ronment.” He waves his tentacles to
include the Flamenco, the valley, the
whole state of Los Angeles. “The
wealthier castes. I’m afraid, are less
adaptable. Deprive them of body-
guards, and they wouldn’t last an
hour on the streets.”

My voice returns. “What happens
to the people who stay here r ’

“Not my department,” says the
thropo. “Assume theyll be scrapped
with the planet. Can’t allow them to
continue breeding like this, cause
trouble in no time.”

The double-jointed twins are back,
but I’m not in the mood. “Whose idea
is this, anyway r ’

“Oh,” says the thropo, “it’s stan-
dard procedure. All the new planets
are stabilized at a healthful population
level where proper aesthetic condi-
tions can be maintained. Never any
trouble after that.”

No, I think, there wouldn’t be.

“When’s all this get underway?’ I
ask.

The thropo shrugs his back and all
his tentacles ripple. “Doing the best
we can,” he says. “Genetic studies
have been completed, of course, but
the evaluation process can’t start until
the anthropological studies are ready.
Afraid you could be here another
week.”

“A week f Shit, man, that don’t give
us much time to pack.” I am thinking
I don’t mind being among the chosen
few, but I am not sure so sure I want
to be trucked off to some other
planet. I mean, I was in Michigan
once, and once was enough. But I fig-
ure there’s nothing I can do about it
right now, so I decide to relax and
glom the show.

“Ain’t that blonde a whifiFr’ I say to
the thropo, just to be friendly.

“Marvelous, simply marvelous,”
says the thropo. “A shame that such
things must come to an end, but
then, as one of your poets has put it
so beautifully — ”

“What come to an end r ’ I say.
“What’s that supposed to mean r ’

“Oh, there will be programs re-
corded on holotape in the museums.
No need to worry that it will all be
completely lost.”

AMAZING

“Completely lost"’ I say, beginning
to sound like a looped holotape my-
self. “What will be completely lost r ’

“Nothing, as I say,” says the
thropo. “But naturally, after the con-
version process, this sort of thing will
no longer be commercially feasible.
It’s to be expected that there will be
some changes in the economic milieu
as a result of the migration. But this
is such an unusual approach to
peripheral economic stimulation — an
entire industry devoted to depicting
the mechanics of evolution and
species survival, millions of people
dependent ^ upon it for their liveli-
hood, you understand — that I think
it’s worth recording, if only as a galac-
tic cultural curiosity. One of my little
projects this trip.”

I start off at the place where I got
lost. “What conversion process "’

“The neuterization process,” he
says. “Don’t want your new planet to
turn into a grossly overpopulated
mess like this one. Our genetically-
tailored recombinent replacement
process yields all the benefits of Type
III distribution, and it’s really much
more reliable than the cumbersome
organic method.”

I get just about every other word,
but I get the drift. “Neuter?’ I say.
“You’re not going to fucking neuter
me.”

“Ah,” says the thropo. “English
semantic structure can sometimes be
most confusing.”

I am about to tell him what he can
do with his confusion, but I figure I
should cruise if a bit. “This, uh,
neuterization process,” I say, “uh,
how’d you say it works?’ Meantime
I’m thinking maybe I should watch
the show more carefully, because in a
little while I might not be interested
in this sort of thing at all.

“Automatic,” says the thropo. “Just

wonderful, the equipment we have
now. When I first started out, we had
to do it all by hand, you know.”

“No, no,” I say. “I mean, do you,
you know, cut anything? Or is it,
uh — ”

“Ah,” he says. “Nothing like that.
Just a spot of directed radiation and of
course a psychic implant. Inhibits the
libido and prevents wasteful energy
loss.”

This new angle makes it pretty dif-
ficult for me to just sit and watch the
show, let me tell you. I mean, who
wants to be turned into a zombie and
sent off to some weird planet? But
those snakeheads, there’s no fooling
around with them. The thropos, they
don’t give you any trouble, but you
don’t mess with their cops. Those
people who fought the snakeheads re-
ally got fried.

After the show, we ditch the thropo
and I tell the guys what he says. This
causes some surprise, as you can im-
agine. The first question is, how come
he told it to me, when nobody else
seems to have heard about it. Now, I
can’t really answer that, except maybe
other people know and they’re not
telling. But I convince the guys that
what I’m telling them is true. I don’t
he to the guys, they know that.

Everybody agrees that life on this
new planet, whatever it’s like, would
be a hustle and a half compared to life
on Pomona. This is despite the fact,
which you may not know, that it’s
tough to make a living as a nixen
these days. Most of the greeners are
pretty dumb, but they got these ftick-
en defense systems you need a
goddam degree in engineering to get
past.

We figure we’re going to have to do
something fest. But we don’t know
what.

WHAT ARE FRIENDS FOR?

So THE NEXT DAY we’ve got a lookout
for the thropo and we catch him
standing in hne to see a triple feature
at the magnafox, a bunch of Japanese
spleebies with titles like “Sex Sluts
From Beyond the Universe.” He’s got
his holocorder with him.

We mumble him a little, then we
lead him around to what we want to
know.

“Who’s in charge of this neuteriza-
tion program, anyway?’ I ask, real
casual.

“In this sector?’ says the thropo. “I
am. And I can tell you, it’s not a job
that leaves me much time for field re-
search.”

I don’t have much sympathy for his
troubles, but I am very happy to
learn that we know the guy in charge.
The thropo, however, doesn’t stop
there.

“The subtleties of your reproduc-
tion ritual and the multiplicity of
commercial media depicting its forms
leave me with little hope of observing
all types of socio-sexual economic in-
teraction first hand.” The ' thropo
waves a tentacle or two at the theater
billboard, which is a full-color
holoposter of this blonde whiflF who is
wearing antennas on her head and
very little else, being threatened by
an ugly-looking monster with a huge
dick. When you move, the monster
leers and shakes his dick. “When one
considers,” says the thropo, the inter-
polation of additional thematic con-
tent, such as the exploitation of your
species’ regrettable xenophobia, the
amount of material is simply over-
whelming.”

I am beginning to see some pos-
sibilities. “You need time, huh ?’ I
say. “This isn’t something you can do
after we move to this new planet ?’

“The social context is most impor-
tant, says the thropo. “Of course, we

are assembling great collections of
source material — films, photos,
printed matter, ritual clothing and
devices. But after neuterization, the
social context will be lost forever. The
other day, for instance, when you and
your friends were participating in the
performance, tossing objects to the
performers and interacting with them,

I noticed that many of the other
people there, the older men especial-
ly, were most introspective. I want to
examine that sort of reaction as well,
but I simply can’t be everywhere at
once.”

The line is getting closer to the
door, and I can see that if I don’t get
the thropo away. I’m going to lose
him entirely. So I talk the thropo into
skipping the spleebie for now and
joining us in a bar across the street.
This bar is the pits, hot and dark,
with air that’s been resyked so many
times it has garlic on its breath. But I
figure at least the thropo will buy the
servesa, so it won’t be a total loss,
even if he doesn’t buy my line.

We all cram in around a dirty little
table in the comer and 1 start my rap.
“You need time, huh?’ I say. “You’re
the Man, how come you don’t just
make time ?’

“So many planets,” says the thropo.
“So much material to collect. If I
thought the subject important
enough. I’d stay here a while, re-
search it more thoroughly. Someday,
perhaps, I may wish I had. Difficult
to judge.”

“If you stay here,” I say, “will you
still be sending people to ' that other
planet ?’

“Certainly not,” says the thropo.
“Need everyone here. No meaningful
research can be done with the tem-
nants of a planet’s population. But I
see little justification for staying.
Nothing that would convince my

AMAZING

superiors, at any rate.

“There’s lots of stuff,” I say, “that
you haven’t seen at all. You just hit
the shelves, man. There’s stuff behind
the counter, too, you know. And no-
body ’d show it to a thropo.” I look
over to Chico, who I know I can
count on to get things right the first
time. “Chico,” I say, “run down and
get some uc zines from Paco. Rub-
ber, S-and-M, chickens, watersports,
whatever you can find.” I look back at
the thropo. “You’ll see lots you never
seen before.”

While we’re waiting for Chico, I
want to keep the thropo busy, so I
ask him what he gets off on most.

“Oh, all of it fascinates me,” he
says. “Just the thought, for one thing,
that humans would be interested in
watching the mating ritual, when sur-
vival theory indicates they should be
more interested in participating. How
does a watcher maintain its genetic
strain in competition with those who
exchange germ plasm more readily"’
He looks around at us, as if he thinks
we can answer this. “In addition,” he
says, “there’s the use of this voyeuris-
tic tendency, however it’s inherited,
as a means of generating employment.
Not only the people who produce this
material, but their suppliers, dis-
tributors, those who sell them office
and living space, these people all
benefit. It’s a very valuable service. If
there were no demand for it, there
would be millions more starving. ” He
goes on like this for a while, and I am
hatching out what I’m going to do
when Chico comes back. I figure I
will continue to play it by ear, be-
cause the thropo seems pretty good at
selling himself on whatever he wants
to buy.

Finally Chico turns up, and he’s got
a good bunch of zines with him. The
thropo is high as Jamaica.

“Most unusual material,” he says,

WHAT ARE FRIENDS FOR?

and he’s muttering other stuff to him-
self in sort of a snufile. “Here, for in-
stance, the subjugation of violence to
the purposes of procreation.” He flips
through another stack. “A paradoxical
denial of the generative religious cult
to further the process of generation.”

I don’t know where Paco sells all this
stuff showing people dressed like
nuns, but somebody must buy it.
“And these magazines seem to
specialize in the use of de\'ices that — ”
He goes on and on.

“So what’s the word"’ I say. “You
think we’re worth studying a little
longer r ’

The thropo looks up. “Yes,” he
says. “I feel quite confident that my
sup>eriors would approve a few de-
cades of intensive research. Perhaps
more, dependent on the results.”

“So youll be around for quite a
while,” I say. Another idea is getting
to me. “You could probably use some
help. Me and Allie here, and Tom
and Rita and Chico and LaVerne,
well be glad to show you where the
real action is. We don’t charge
much.” I figure we won’t have it too
hard, getting paid to find the thropo
some action. And I am keeping in
mind that business has been lousy
lately, like I said.

The thropo gets all choked up. “I
don’t know how to show my apprecia-
tion for all this,” he says. “It could be
the making of my reputation. The
preservation of cultural treasures like
these and the retention of their social
context. And they could so easily have
been destroyed with your planet.”

“Relax,” I say. “We’re your friends,
right? What are friends for if they
can’t help you out once in a while ”’
By this time the thropo is almost cry-
ing, if snakeheads can cry. He falls all
over us with his snakey thanks and
pays for the beers, like I thought.

— Eileen Gunn

Our Associate Editor Emeritus returns with the story which answers the
question —

WHAT ARE YOU GOING
TO DO

WHEN YOU SEE
YOUR LADY

STROLUNG ON THE DECK
OF THE STARSHIP?^

GRANT CARRINGTON

Illustrated by

The starship orbitted the Earth. It
was being constructed around the
shell of an asteroid whose orbit had
neared that of the Earth and had
been captured by a team of as-
tronauts. It had been building for ten
years, an ungainly collection of pods
and experimental sections that would
carry seven thousand gypsies beyond
the sun, beyond Pluto, beyond the
comet-spawning zone that marked the
borders of the solar system, gathering
speed as it gulped hydrogen ions, sail-
ing toward light-speed. It would take
two years to get past Pluto’s orbit,
most of its crew in cryogenic sleep,
reaching out in an attempt to
lengthen the lifetime of humanity be-
yond that of its own solar system, a

RICHARD OLSEN

feeble attempt at immortality for
Mankind.

Less than one percent of the popu-
lation had volunteered for its crew
and passenger list, but it had taken
several years for the computers to sift
through that small percentage of
mankind’s billions, trying to attain a
balance between races, skills, in-
telligence, physical abilities, educa-
tion, and a myriad of other criteria.

Even so, some people had to be ac-
tively recruited, people whose talents
were rare and needed.

Primrose Young was not one of
those. She had been in love with the
project from its inception, when she
was still halfway through grammar
school, a little flower of a ten-year-old

int Carrington

AMAZING

girl. She had grown up with one
thought in mind : she was going to be
on the crew of the starship. She had
studied all the disciplines that she
thought would be needed : chemistry,
cybernetics, astronautics, nuclear
physics, computer science. She was
certain that her talents would cause
her to' be chosen for the crew.

But she was only one of tens of
thousands who had the same idea and
dream, who had grown up pointing
themselves arrowlike at the starship.
Only a mere handful, slightly less

than a hundred, of those tens of
thousands, would be chosen.

Philip Steinbrunner could have

cared less. He knew about the star-
ship, of course, but it was of no im-
portance to him. His world was the
theatre; it was his universe, and he
had no need to go out into the galaxy.
Nightly, behind his bottle-thick eye-
glasses, he orchestrated the live per-
formances of the city theatre, his

stubby fingers passing glibly over the
keys of the computer terminal. The
electrical impulses so generated be-
came multiplied a thousandfold inside
the computer, channeled and redi-
rected, flowing to lights and

machines, slowly bringing set pieces
in and out, fading lights slowly or
bringing on instant black-outs, creating
sunsets complete with robin songs. If
he could have controlled the actors,
he would have done that too, and
with consummate precision, perhaps
even art. But Philip did not consider
himself an artist : he was merely a
craftsman, a technician. Those in the
trade knew of his skills and ability;
the actors knew he was good, but
they dismissed him since he was not
an actor; the public assumed that the
success and brilliance of the theatre
were completely the responsibolity of
the director and the actors. Philip

STROLLING ON THE STARSHIP

Steinbrunner knew all this and he
didn’t care. All that mattered to him
was the creation of precision and the
exponential performance curve that
would never quite bring him to per-
fection.

Where Philip Steinbrunner was
thick fingers, pear-shaped body, a
fringe of scanty reddish-blond whis-
kers, and deceptive clumsiness. Prim-
rose Young was all curves and grace.
She was a lithe dainty girl with deli-
cate breasts and gentle, well-curved
legs. Her face was squarish, firm, and
dedicated; it should not have gone
well with that delicate body, but
somehow it worked. She was not pret-
ty or beautiful, but she attracted
plent>’ of men. She would have
looked even better if her dark hair
had been long and flowing, but she
kept it cropped short, almost man-
nish, to keep it out of the way of her
experiments. For Primrose Young was
just as adept in the laboratory as
Philip Steinbrunner was in the
theatre. Her delicate tapered fingers
flew across laboratory consoles in a
dance that was as graceful as Philip’s
was earthbound. She could find rea-
gents and crucibles and solve four-
body problems and Korbyshev
polynomials as easily as he faded
lights and rearranged sets.

They should never have known
each other. By all the rules that
govern such things, they should never
have even met. He was Caliban to
her Miranda. Their worlds were Venn
diagrams that should not have ever
intersected, but they had one point in
common. The name of that point was
Linda Fortino. She was a casual
friend of Primrose’s and a friend of a
friend of Philip’s. Somehow they both
got invited to the same party at Lin-
da’s.

Primrose arrived first. As usual, she

was one of the first to arrive at the
party. Linda Fortino’s current lover,
an engineering student, had just as-
sembled his own light organ and he
delighted in showing the instrument
off. He let other people try to create
their own light shows with it, but no
one came close to doing as well as
Primrose. Not even Linda’s lover
himself could do as well as Primrose.

After several people had played
with the instrument, she sat down at
the console and began hitting keys at
random, learning what effects they
would cause, finding the blue fights,
the green lights, the strobes, the
amoebas, the slides, the flashers. She
learned to regulate the timings, to
slow down and speed up, and when
she was finished, she accepted the
congratulations with aplomb and
casual amusement. After all, she knew
she was as good with a computer as
they come, better than anyone else
she knew.

So when Philip shambled in and
was urged to try out the light show,
she smiled to herself This clumsy
male in the ill-fitting clothes could not
even do as well as most of the others.
She wondered why they urged him to
try it, and she felt a moment of pity
for him and once again thanked her
stars that she was so talented and
lucky.

She was a little surprised when he
obtained simple but tasteful patterns
by his slow tentative approach to the
computer. Despite his clumsiness and
shyness and awkwardness with
people, he seemed to have a flare for
creation.

“Not bad,” she said condescend-
ingly, to no one in particular.

“Wait,” someone close to her said.

She turned around in irritation, but
couldn’t figure out who had said it.

Already the show was gaining in

AMAZING

complexity, gathering momentum for
a fireworks display of green carnations
and violent nebulae. It was not the
cold, cool, calculated precision light-
play of the competent computer-
player. There was such an element
present, but there was more. A dark
gray of depressions that rapidly
shaded through purples and reds into
a brilliant orange crescendo of happi-
ness ran over the walls. The orange
chased the gray around the room, de-
voured it, even as the orange itself
was being devoured by the cool green
of contemplation. The contemplation
disintegrated in a ‘shower of bright
blue and yellow streamers, culminat-
ing in protons and falling stars,
gamma rays and starships, streaking
fleshtones, rich brown planets orbit-
ting white stars, mountain lions and
Irish whiskeys, prophets on the
mountains and feather headbands.
With a final burst of color, Philip set-
tled down to a leaf storm that danced
in autumns around the room, quiet
and gentle.

There would have been applause
had anyone known that he was
finished, but Phifip was in his ele-
ment. Having explored the machine
and pushed it to its limits (which
were far beyond those its creator had
thought possible), he now worked
gently and unobtrusively with the
music. People drifted off, to dance,
drink, talk, make love, or just watch
his patterns.

Primrose, now utterly crushed,
knowing that Philip had surpassed her
smug but sterile production as easily
as she had surpassed the others at the
party, watched him as he played at
the light organ, totally immersed and
absorbed.

“Care for a sniff r’ someone asked
her.

She shook her head, turned away.

and went looking for Linda Fortino.
When she found her hostess, she
asked, “Who is that weird-looking guy
at the computer: He’s good.”

“Oh, he’s a friend of Jerry’s. Has
something to do with tKe theatre. Jer-
ry’s a dancer, you know. He’s really
playing up a storm, isn’t he r ’

Primrose nodded. She didn’t know
who Jerry was and she didn’t much
care. She walked back to the light
organ and stood behind Philip, watch-
ing as his clumsy blunt fingers moved
skillfully over the keyboard. It was
hard to believe that such awkward
and apparently random movement
could produce such beauty.

Philip looked up at her and smiled
briefly. She smiled back, but he was
already re-absorbed in his show. Half
a minute later, aware that she was
still watching him, he recorded a
simple twenty-five-instruction loop,
put the organ on automatic, and
turned back to Primrose.

“You like it r ’ he asked, smiling like
a child.

“It’s very good. Could you teach
me to do that r ’

He frowned. “I don’t know,” he
said. “I’m not very good at teaching
people things.”

“Just try,” she said, sitting down
beside him.

From there, things progressed as
such things progress, in great leaps
and clumsy bounds, looping back
upon themselves and getting caught
in the capstans. Primrose got Phifip to
agree to let her come over to the
theatre, where he showed off his skill
■ at setting up scenes and changing
fights. He let her run the computer,
more complicated in its way than
those of the laboratory. Whereas she
was used to the delicacy of control
necessary in the laboratory, she was
not accustomed to the 'complexity of

STROLLING ON THE STARSHIP

operation, the number of degrees of
movement and ability necessary for
the theatre. Philip watched over her
like a mother hen, ready to pounce if
she should put his precious equip-
ment in danger.

She stood behind him while he ran
an actual production,. and she watched
as the actors and actresses left with
barely a word for him.

“They don’t even know you exist,”
she said. “They take you for granted.”

“I’m just part of the machinery,” he
said, grinning as though it was the
most natural thing in the world.

“But that’s not right. If it wasn’t for
you, they couldn’t do anything.”

“It’s unimportant,” he said, reach-
ing up to switch off the computerr
The faint electrical sound that had be-
come a part of them all for several
hours died with a barely perceptible
whimper. “You appreciate what I’m
doing, and I know when I’ve done a
good job. What do they matter?
They’re just actors.” It was a long
speech for Philip and he grinned in
embarrassment.

That was the first night that Prim-
rose slept with him. The first of
many. Philip didn’t live for others’
approbation; he lived to satisfy only
himself, and yet he did so without
imposing his will or presence on
others. As long as they left him alone
to do what he wanted to do, he was
happy. It was a refreshing change
from the tense competitiveness with
which Primrose had grown up.

They walked into the electric park
together one night when the theatre
was dark. Philip hadn’t wanted to; he
wanted to go back to the theatre and
explore the computer still more.
There was’ a scene in the current pro-
duction he wasn’t satisfied with. He
felt a slight change in one of the sets
could result in a smoother transition.

“Not tonight, Philip,” she said. “It
can wait, can’t it r’

“Sure,” he said, “but there’s noth-
ing more important that needs to be
done, so why not do it now r ’

“Can’t we spend tonight together
alone for once r ’

“Well be alone in the theatre.”

But Philip had little experience
withstanding someone else’s desires
and so he went with her. She found a
section that was dark, checked the
time, and pointed to the sky. “Look
up, Philip. Youll be able to see it
pretty soon.”

They watched in silence for a few
moments then the ship appeared mag-
ically in the sky. Hidden in Earth’s
shadow, it hadn’t caught sunlight until
it was almost at the zenith. Now it
moved rapidly across the sky, twin-
kling and fading as its rotation reflected
sunlight from different facets.

“What do you think r’ she asked
when it was gone.

“It was nice,” Philip said.

“Nicer Is that all you can say about
it fit’s the hope of mankind.”

“Well, I was just thinking ...”
Philip’s voice trailed off, but Prim-
rose said nothing. She had become
accustomed to his thoughtful pauses
by now and knew better than to
interrupt his train of thinking. “If we
moved a couple of those stars, and
maybe put a little more color in the
twinkling of the starship ...”

“Moved the stars r ’ Primrose asked
incredulously.

“Yeah,” Philip said eagerly, “you
know, and maybe a little more wind
in the trees.” He clapped his hands
together. “Don’t you think that would
be more effective r ’

“Philip, Philip,” she said, like a
mother to a little child. “This is reali-
ty. We can’t do things like that.”

Philip looked thoughtfully up at the

AMAZING

sky, his chin cupped in one hand.
“Yeah,” he said at last, “but I can do
it in the theatre.”

She took him to the laboratory
with her one day and let him play
with her computer, watching him as
he had watched her in the theatre,
but he made no mistakes. He did
exactly what she told him to do, fol-
lowing the instructions she called up
from the computer’s memory banks.
By the time the afternoon had come
to its end, he was carrying on three
experiments at a time, moving deftly
from one console to another. She in-
tervened only when two experiments
reached critical phases at the same
time.

“That was poor timing,” he said la-
ter. “If I’d known that was going to
happen. I’d have started one of them
sooner.”

“Philip,” she said, laughing, “you’re
incorrigible.”

“I try to be,” he said.

“You ought to apply for the star-
ship. You’re a natural.”

“Why should I do that r They don’t
have a theatre up there.”

“But, Philip . . . you can do just
about anything you want with a com-
puter. I’ve never seen anything like
it. You don’t even understand half the
things you’re doing. I’m sure of it,
but you . . . you’re like part of the
computer.”

Philip smiled proudly. “We’re a
team,” he said.

In the small apartment that they
now shared, he watched as she went
through her exercises, toning up for
the semi-weightless conditions of the
starship. He stayed out of her way, all
too well aware of his own clumsiness
away from his beloved computers.

“You ought to do them too,” she
said. “They’d be good for you.”

“I’m in good shape,” he replied.

“Besides, if you changed your
mind, you’d be all set for the starship.
You’d have a lot less work to do.”

“I’m not applying for it,” he said
quietly, matter-of-factly.

Primrose Young had not been the
first woman to pay attention to Philip.
Starstruck struggling actresses had
tried to use him as a stepping-stone,
tying themselves to his coat-strings as
a way into the world of successful
theatre. Some had even succeeded in
establishing careers as bit actresses.
Philip had simply given a mental
shrug or two and accepted their atten-
tion when he had it, missing it only
briefly when it was gone.

But Primrose was something else.
She wasn’t using him as a stepping-
stone for her own career. She had her
own brilliant career going, one that
had nothing to do with Philip Stein-
brunner’s world. He had accepted her
placidly at first, soon learning of her
obsession with the starship. It was
just another part of her, unimportant
at the time, since Philip thought she
would just pass through his life as so
many other people had.

But it didn’t turn out that way this
time. They grew together in a way he
had never known before, and when
she was accepted for the starship
crew, he was unprepared.

“What’ll I dor’ Primrose asked,
caught between her love for Philip
and the need to satisfy her obsession.
There were tears in her eyes but she
wasn’t yet crying.

“You’ll do what you have to do,” he
said calmly, but beneath the calm-
ness, a frantic part of his soul was
begging to be set loose.

“I can’t leave you,” she said.
“You’ve got to come with me.”

“They won’t let me,” he said
reasonably, shutting the door firmly

STROLLING ON THE STARSHIP

on his screaming soul. “I don’t have
any skills that they need. What place
would a theatre technician have on a
new world r ’

“You could come as my mate, my
husband. They’d have to let you
come.”

Philip smiled sadly. Only the
echoes of his screaming soul were
left. “No, they wouldn’t, and you
know it. They’d just replace you.”
The back of his hand brushed a snifter
and Primrose caught it before it tum-
bled to the floor. “And what makes
you think I’d want to go r ’

“You wouldn’t gor’ Primrose
looked at him in astonishment. She
had never really considered the fact
that anyone might not want to go on
the starship. ,

“Of course not. I have everything I
need right here. On the starship. I’d
have nothing to do.”

“But I can’t stay here,” she cried.
"I have to go.”

“Of course you do. I understand.”
He quickly cut off a faint wail from
his soul. “You won’t be happy if you
don’t go, and I won’t be happy if I
do.”

“You don’t love me,” she accused.

“Of course I do.”

Then the weeks ran like water
over marble; there was little time now
to share the electric dawns as they
had once done. Their moments to-
gether were brief and passionate,
until finally Primrose was gone from
Philip’s life, orbitting over his head in
the year’s training and acclimatization
she would undergo before the starship
finally departed.

And Philip Steinbrunner could ig-
nore his soul no longer.

Everything began to look like scen-
ery stored in an empty theatre, stars
on the ground, fences in the sky, and

rips and tears in the curtain of time.
On his free nights, he went to the
electric park to watch the twinkling
starship streak overhead. Somewhere
in that ungainly Jumble, Primrose
Young was preparing to leave Earth
and Philip Steinbrunner behind.

It wasn’t that he missed their in-
frequent lovemaking: their passion
had primarily been one of minds, and
she had pointed out doors to him that
he had never bothered to notice be-
fore.

At last, Philip went to the agency
in charge of recruiting and training
starship crew members.

“I’m sorry,” the administrator said
after Philip had filled out a plethora
of forms and taken scores of tests.
“I’m afraid there is no place for you in
the starship program, Mr. Steinbrun-
ner. We’re all very much impressed
with your talents, especially your
ability with computers, but there’s
just too many holes in your scientific
background. ”

Undaunted, Philip turned in-
quisitor, drawing from the adminis-
trator the disciplines in which they
were most interested.

“You’re wasting your time, Mr.
Steinbrunner,” the Administrator
said. “There’s no possible way you
^ould become proficient enough in
these fields in time to make the star-
ship crew.”

H E ATTACKED the problem with an
obsession that would have astounded
Primrose Young and that did astound
the people in the theatre world who
were used to an easy-going Philip
Steinbrunner. He severed all his ties
with the theatre, then dove deeply
into the computer, spending twelve to
sixteen hours a day at it, learning
about approach spirals, ecological de-
gradation, quasars, positrons, organ

AMAZING

transplantation, learning theory,
cyborg technology, and a dozen other
things he had not known existed. He
mastered set theory in three days;
trigonometry took a httle longer. Cal-
culus eluded him until the theory of
the point of accumulation, when all
the threads came together in one
glorious conclusion. Two hours later,
he was once again confused. Relativ-
ity, quantum physics, organic chemis-
try: all were mastered to the point
where Philip knew just how to query
the computer on those points he had
forgotten or had never known in the
first place.

Philip became a true renaissance
man in an age of speciafists, not
knowing perhaps as deeply and intui-
tively as a specialist, but aware of the
nebulous bridges between disciplines.
The combination of knowledge in two
or more different areas sometimes
brought him to conclusions that no
one else had yet arrived at. His un-
derstanding of computers, their
abilities and their shortcomings, fused
with his new knowledge of organ
transplantation and cyborg technology
to convince him that those transplants
considered “impossible” were indeed
not so : an experienced surgeon
teamed with a computer operator of
Philip’s ability, controlling the sup-
portive functions that a computer
could handle, made any transplant a
possibility.

The technicians at the agency were
amazed.

“It’s impossible,” they told the ad-
ministrator. “The guy’s absolutely
incredible. There’s only one other
person on the starship who even ap-
proaches him.”

“But it’s too late,” the administrator
said. “The starship leaves in two
months. The crew and backups have
all been chosen, trained, and accli-

mated. There isn’t enough time or
room for another man and his support
equipment and supplies.”

“Never mind,” said Philip. “Let me
finish the course. Perhaps you’ll need
me after all. Perhaps there’ll be a de-
lay. Perhaps there’ll be another star-
ship.”

“There’ll be no other starship, and
there’ll be no major delays,” the ad-
ministrator said. “And we will not
need you. You should have started
this years ago. There’s no way you
can make the starship now.”

“Yes, there is,” Philip said softly.

He looked down at himself
through the video pickups of the
operating room. He was connected
directly to a computer through elec-
trodes implanted into his brain. He
couldn’t feel them or sense them; the
brain has no sensory input of its own.
He would be guiding his own
surgery, through computer-controlled
Waldos, aided by the computer’s mas-
sive memory. He knew more than
any surgeon and had exquisite control
and microsecond precision. He no
longer needed those blunt, stubby,
clumsy-looking fingers. His fingers
now were made of steel and
aluminum and ended in saws and pin-
cers and whatever other tools he
needed.

Philip Steinbrunner was in his ele-
ment now. He no longer was part of
the computer nor was the computer
an extension of his body and wishes;
he and the computer were one.

Primrose Young floated gently to
the aleph “floor” of the computer
room. Her scalp had been shaved; le-
sions showed where dozens of pin-
point receptacles waited for their
mates in the computer helmet that
slipped easily over her head. There

STROLLING ON THE STARSHIP

were none of the clumsy, inefficient,
and slow keyboard consoles for the
starship’s computer links.

Primrose strapped herself into the
chair and settled the helmet over her
head, feeling the insertion of the elec-
trodes in an almost sexual manner.
This was not by chance; the designers
of the system had included several
psychologists.

With her head now hooked into the
Andromeda computer, she said
“Ready” into the mouthpiece.

A new component had arrived less
than twenty-four hours earlier, and
was being mated to the system. There
was quite a lot of attention being de-
voted to it.

A red light blinked on in Primrose’s
head, turning immediately to green.
She thought the anagram that opened
the circuits and one by one she en-
tered the gates of the computer, feel-
ing its resistance to her entry fall
rapidly to zero. At each stage, she
and the computer were tested to
make sure that both were ready and
compatible. At last she stood before
the new module. There was a longer
delay here before contact was com-
pleted.

“Hello”’ The voice that resonated
in her mind was the mechanical
computer-voice that she always
created in her brain, but it was yet
somehow familiar. Something in the
pauses, the way words were em-
phasized, banged at the doors of her
subconscious.

“This is computer technician Prim-
rose Young,” she replied, “activating
test sequence 48-Gauss-polynomial-
three. The constants for this test
are ...”

“Relax, Primrose,” the voice said.
“We don’t have to go through all

that.”

Her subconscious finished its con-
nections, and Philip’s voice replaced
the mechanical monotone.

“But . . . where are you r ’ she
asked. “The new module ...”

“ ... is too small for a complete
human being,” he finished for her.
“No, there wasn’t enough time left to
acclimate my body for the starship.
But they needed my brain almost as
much as I need to be with you.”

For a moment she failed to under-
stand, then the true impact and hor-
ror of what he had done reached her.
“Oh, Philip,” was all she could say.

He caught the pity and dismay in
her tone and replied, “Don’t be sorry
for me. Primrose. It’s what I wanted.
Really.”

“Oh, but, Philip ...”

“Remember what Shakespeare
said.”

“Shakespeare r ’

“ ‘All the world’s a stage.’ ”

“Yes.”

“He was thinking small. I have the
whole universe as my theatre now.”

Slowly, the starship moved out of
its orbit, leaving Earth’s gravity cage,
toward Mars and then beyond, past
Uranus and Pluto, breaking through,
moving on out to the cold and the
dark.

If you’ve only lived on Earth,
you’ve never really seen the sun or
known the promise of the village of
stars. You can’t move the stars. But
you can move yourself and that can
make just as much difference. Ask
Philip Steinbrunner. He feels the
planets in his body and he regrets
nothing.

— Grant Carrington

AMAZING

Steve Miller made his professional debut here with “Charioteer" (May);
he returns with a story about a man whose problem was —

THE SOLUTION

STEVE MILLER

From a strict philosophical point of
view the impossible cannot happen.
Thus Rubay Glins proved that al-
though it was extremely improbable,
it Was not impossible to survive the
failure of Simultaneous Matter Trans-
lation in transit. Of course it was also
considered nearly impossible for smt
to fail in the first place. It never had
before.

Rubay Glins was a replacement for
a replacement. Some thirty-five days
before the scheduled flight of the
Scout and Survey ship Crockett the
Generalist had decided to stay on
Earth in pursuit of a happiness she’d
discovered on the beaches of Tahiti.
Less than forty hours before flight
Generalist Ardmore had managed to
get in the way of a mugger in Bos-
ton’s expanded dmz. Although he
would recover (while the mugger and
two friends had not) it was decided
that a broken arm might hamper his
ability to operate.

Hence it was Rubay Glins, on his
second trip into space, who had the
unique opportunity of watching his
spaceship peel as it began to
materialize elsewhere. This property
of SMT — moring a spaceship, crew of
five, and plenty of supplies from here
to there without traveling the inter-
vening distance — was highly prized.
The peeling was something new and
unsought.

Glins, as Generalist, had nothing at

all to do during the few moments of
Translation, except watch things go on
around him. The slight lurch told him
Translation had begun. Almost im-
mediately things began to look
strange.

The lights, for one thing, dimmed
much too rapidly, and also refused to
come back to their normal brilliance.
Since Glins was new to the crew he
was wearing all required gear, includ-
ing full space suit. The other four
members of the crew, all in the for-
ward cabin, were less prone to follow
directives. The radio carried the brief
sound of someone yelling “Oh, shit’’
into the mike, and then the ship split
into four or five long segments around
Glins.

Glins noticed everything. The cabin
decompressed rapidly. Walls moved
away under the force of decompres-
sion. Whatever happened — Glins later
favored the vibration theory —
destroyed the main seams in the ship
as if they were white glue in water.

Within five seconds of appearing in
orbit around the distant and unnamed
(but numbered) tta-e77a, a roughly
Earth-like planet discovered by auto-
mated probes, the Crockett was little
more than an expanding con-
glomeraiton of scrap metal.

Glins kept his seat for a moment or
two more, until it became obvious
that the long section of metal he was
attached to was not the one he

THE SOLUTION

wanted to be on. Attached to what
had been the Crockett’s left wall was
the blister of the lifeboat. Being a
practical man, Glins spent little time
thinking. He jumped to that wall
while it was a mere fifteen feet away,
grabbing onto the spare suit rack
which had been in the forward com-
partment.

Up ahead and to his right he could
see the four figures belted into the
remains of the flight deck. None of
them showed any signs of motion, and
since they weren’t wearing suits in
the vacumn, Glins decided that they
wouldn’t hear him if he tried the
radio. He didn’t.

Already the various portions of the
space ship had begun to take up mo-
tions of their own. Glins worked his
way down to the lifeboat blister, no-
ticing how close to solar light was the
light from this unnamed star. Barely a
million kilometers away was the
Earth-like planet they had come to
explore, its brilliant South Polar re-
gion covering much of the hemis-
phere. The portions of the ship were
spinning slightly, and the section he
was on was starting to show signs of a
slow tumble. He realized that if he
stayed with it he would “catch-up”
with the flight deck and might jump
there.

No, there would be little use of
that. The lifeboat was the immediate
goal — later on he could decide what
else had to be done.

The zee-gee pads on his boots al-
lowed him to move cautiously toward
the blister. Even though he knew the
pads were supposed to be sufficient
he crouched low to the hull metal.
The first shot of adrenalin began to
wear away — he could see it in the
way his arms were starting to trem-
ble.

Now the sections of the Crockett

were getting further apiart. His suit
told him that they were nearly one
hundred meters away now — his own
vision told him they must be two or
three times ferther away than that.

He corrected his thinking. This
planet was at 1.1 A.U. from its pri-
mary, the primary was ever-so slightly
smaller than Sol, if just a bit hotter.
All this added up to the difiference in
his vision. The light was sun-like, but
not exact. He would have to trust his
instruments while in space.

The blister which held the lifeboat
was in front of him now, full of
shadows and dimples. “Ah,” he said
to himself, “this will cause a bit of a
problem.”

He checked his thinking. The plas-
tic and boron fibers barely budged
when he pushed against them. There
was still air at ship-board pressures
within the blister. If he released it at
once it might start him spinning,
perhaps tumble his section of hull
into one of the other bits of debris. If
it would release at all.

He sat on the door of the airlock for
a few moments. The lock was set to
accept vacuum on the other side, not
on this side. He tried the mechanism,
pushing the regular switch. Nothing.
Registering a vacuum, it didn’t want
to open. The overide handle, a long
red-orange bar, didn’t want to move
either.

Glins sat watching the stars. None
of them were familiar. He hadn’t had
time to study the local constellations;
not time to identify direction. Sol
could be ninety-five light years away
in any direction.

“And miles to go before I sleep” he
recited to himself His suit had four
or five more hours of oxygen. He re-
alized that only forty minutes had
gone by since the Crockett had flown
between the huge foundationless pil-

AMAZING

lars five hundred thousand miles out
from Earth. The distress signals the
ship’s computer might or might not
be sending out wouldn’t get home for
ninety or a hundred years and he had
five hours of breathing left.

“Shit.” he said to himself. It
sounded familiar.

Glins pondered for a few moments.
He added up his supplies, provisions
etc. He did have a tool kit. He wasn’t
sure if the zee-gee would permit him
to muster enough force to pierce the
plastic and boron shroud. The outer-
lock. Aha!

Twenty minutes later Glins was
shaking his head again. The outerlock
needed more power than he could
muster. After all it was supposed to
be operated from within. The outside
controls were hooked into the ship’s
main power supply — a reactor which
was drifting more than a thousand
meters away.

Still, Glins was slightly happier.
Another inventory of supplies showed
that he had two spare suits on the
racks. His supply of air was somewhat
extended, and he had food supplies
which would far outlast the air. The
outside lock had merely been a good
idea.

Merely an idea! He shook his head
in wonder. Ideas were the reason for
Generalists in the first place. Al-
though his training extended into
each of the other major areas of
Search and Survey, the key was to be
widely read and widely experienced.
How far that went sometimes amazed
non-Generalists.

Glins had been in the Army during
the Amalgamation of Canada, had
studied three languages and read his-
tories for two months before propos-
ing anything at all to the Army Staff.
Once he’d started it was only a matter
of time before other Generalists took

up his ideas, synthesized them, took
new looks and came up with better
approaches to the war.

Quebec surrendered quietly.

Glins sighed. He could use an idea
right now. The various supplies for
burning and building? Inside the
lifeboat. Other heavy tools? Stored
away inside one or another packets at-
tached to the freight hold. They were
a few thousand meters away and he
had no manuvering units.

Where do you get your ideas ?
Where do you get your ideas? A
common question to Generalists, until
it was a private joke. “Come on
Glins,” he said to himself, “Where do
you get your ideas anyway r ’

“Daydreams? Yes. Talking to your-
self? Yes. Answering yourself? Yes.”

At college Glins had pledged to a
fraternity for a short time, until he
decided that they weren’t worth the
bother. During one of the minor haz-
ings he’d answered the question the
right way.

“C’mon idea man, where do you
find ideas? You got an idea book
somewhere "’

“It’s simple. I think of a problem,
and then I daydream a way out of it.
Then I make a nightmare of it, to find
out what’s wrong with that idea. Then
I daydream until I get it right.”

That hadn’t satisfied his abusers,
and then they’d made the mistake of
threatening a beating, just for fun,
and probably unseriously. But
Generalists survive, too.

“Suppose, though, that he hadn’t
gotten away,” he said to himself.
“What if they had put you here — how
would you survive r ’

“I was secretly a surgeon, so I took
out my scapel, the one I keep with
me for emergency trachs . . . no.
Cutting isn’t the answer. ”

“They got you, do they, Glins T

THE SOLUTION

"Not yet they don’t.”

“I was secretly an electronics tech-
nician T

Clins hastily removed a small tool
kit from his belt. He checked the
screwdriver size against that j)f the
plate covering the controls. No
way — the plate was locked into the
fibers. It was not only screwed in, but
was welded in an airtight seal. He’d
need a hot-saw or a laser to get
through that. The suit radio would
open the inside doors of the boat, but
wouldn’t do anything with the ship’s
door.

“The problem’s not with a problem,
it’s with someone else’s solution to
another problem.”

Someone had suggested that to
him, a professor. Solve their problem
and youll solve yours.

"The problems are that humans
can’t breath vacumn and that they
must be protected in an emergency.”
He said to himself.

He nodded.

“The solution is to provide locks
which prevent people from exposing
themselves to vacumn.”

Glins nodded again.

“So study the solution!”

The solution, it turned out, was dif-
ficult to study. There were no less
than four reasonable methods for de-
termining pressure on the other side
of the lock. He carefully examined the
lock until he found the correct one.

Even the emergency override
would not operate without at least
one-tenth the normal pressure. It said
so in small print on a plate beside the
door — a plate which assumed that the
ship side would always have pressure.

The solution was obvious. Except
that Glins would have to provide
pressure to two sensors located five
feet apart. More than one tenth nor-
mal pressure and not more than two

tenths above normal pressure. Solve
someone else’s problem.

Glins thought.

He role played.

He thought some more.

He changed oxygen bottles with
one of the spare suits. Now there
were ten hours left. And the twenty
minutes or so left in his old tanks.

He became engineer. That didn’t
work. He became surgeon. That
didn’t work again. He became skydiver.
That was useless.

He talked and talked to himself,
cursing in three or four languages. He
thought of the other tight situations
he’d been in, looked for solutions
there. He recalled the early history of
the space program, finding no ideas
there.

Glins found himself shaking. His
breath came ragged in his ears now.

Maybe this was a problem without
a solution, a locked room mystery
with him the greatest locked room of
all.

Glins found himself recalling a test
in college. The problem was this: a
condemned man wanted to avoid hav-
ing his death be a spectacle. All of his
efforts are directed toward somehow
changing the decision of the court.
He calls in a Generalist to act as his
lawyer. The Generahst solves the
problem within five minutes. How f

By providing a means of suicide.

Glins moved with the thought.

He is the surgeon, also carrying se-
cret information the enemy must not
have. A scapel can be used to slit his
throat, to desto;y the integrity of the
spacesuit . . . that’s it!

Glins moved as fast as the zee-gee
allowed, thinking of himself as a sur-
geon or medic. The problem is to
provide oxygen for someone who
needs it, to allow survival.

He grabbed the emergency kit from

100

AMAZING

one of the spare suits, slapping at the
activation button. The kit opened,
displaying a remarkable variety of
materials and objects.

Glins hastily took a roll of repair
tape and several suit repair
patches — and a scapel. Unthreading
the oxygen tanks from the two suits
he moved to the airlock, carefully
clamping the tanks and kit to the
work surface. He couldn’t afford to
lose time chasing after things.

Picking up one tank he held it close
to the suit patch, judging the size of
the nozzle. With the scapel he made
an incision in the patch, pushing the
nozzle through the hole as soon as it
was made.

Foam bubbled out of the slit in the
patch, sealing the tank nozzle in
tightly. Glins repeated the process
with the other tank.

Now he took the scapel in his
hands thoughtfully.

“Here goes, Dr. Glins.”

Using the blade, Glins made a large
circular cut in the material of the
patch. As it began to foam up he
pressed it around the sensor.

The second patch was harder to'
cut, and for a moment he got the
foam sealant uncomfortably close to
the edge of his own suit. He knew
that if it touched he’d never get it
separated. These patches were meant
to be permanent.

The bubbling was slowing down as
he pressed the patch to the
dimple shaped depression that marked
the second sensor. He turned the

feed valve, moved to turn the feed
valve on the first tank.

Wrapping his arm with tape, Glins
checked the controls. While the regu-
lar door control would open slowly, it
was more likely to jam.

Wrapping the tape around the
emergency lever, and then taping his
left leg to the side of the airlock,
Glins decided that he was ready.

With a jerk, he pulled the lever.

For a second he thought nothing
was going to happen at all.

Then he heard a distant whoosh —
heard it through the helmet! Air
rushed out as the airlock door popped
open. The tumbling increased and the
tape holding him to the door was
drawn taut.

Not eight meters away was the
inner sanctuary he’d been seeking —
the lifeboat.

His suit broadcast the proper sig-
nal and the outerlock to the lifeboat’s
entrance was open before he could
finish cutting his way out of the tape
which held him to the door. In mo-
ments he was inside, helmet off. breath-
ing air that he knew wouldn’t run
out soon.

Looking down at Crockett, yes that
would do as a name for a planet he’d
be living on until the SMT gate people
came to open a gate going the other
way, Glins decided that he’d do- ev-
erything as simply as possible. After
all, it wasn’t the problem solving that
was so bad, it was solving the solu-
tions that left him breathless.

— Steve Miller

THE SOLUTION

101

CRUTCH

ROBERT F. YOUNG

He held the key to the future in his hands — a future only he could un-
derstand . . .

Illustrated by RODAK

The Sphinx : What has four feet in
the morning, two at noon and
three at night?

Oepidus : Man.

The Sphinx ; Wrong!

1 HE Battle of Bloody Ridge’ , as
the engagement subsequently came to
be called, was a misnomer. The Mizar-
ites, while human in most other re-
spects, were bloodless; and since they
had no weapons with which to defend
themselves against the 2435th, other
than those endowed them by nature,
it was doubtful that the 2435th shed
any blood either.

But what the Battle had lacked in
blood-soaked ground it had more than
made up for in Mizarite corpses. In
places they were piled so high as to
resemble sandbag fortifications. The
foot soldiers of the 2435th, however,
had no difficulty climbing over them.
Sergeant Glencannon Frost least of
all. He had been young and nimble
then, and wiry-strong. And as
epinephrine-drunk as his buddies.
With them, he tore over the “bags”
and down the opposite slope of the
ridge into the dry valley where the
dune-huts of the Mizarite village re-
flected Mizar’s unanalyzable green-
gold rays. But the village proved to
be deserted. The women and children
had fled to the nearby barren hills,
taking with them as many of their

possessions as they could gather on
such short notice. As for the old men,
they were part of the “fortifications”
on the ridge.

The surprise attack had been one of
many that had taken place that day in
Zone D. “Demonstrations” in official
parlance; “little Hiroshimas” in the
parlance of the press. Their sole pur-
pose had been to convince the obsti-
nate Mizarites that continued resis-
tance to relocation would no longer
be countenanced by the Terran Au-
thority. Zone D represented only a
tiny wedge of Mizar ii’s vast land
area, but it was the only piece of the
planetary pie that was fit for human
consumption. It might be little more
than sand and rocks and bony hills,
but a few redirected rivers could
transform it into Eden overnight.

-The victorious 2435th, raze rifles at
ready, stormed across the siliceous
sands of the valley floor, the exhilara-
tion of battle still bubbling in their
bloodstreams. Souvenir-hungry, they
swarmed like locusts into the narrow
streets of the village —

JLn retrospect^: sir, do you
attribute your decision to set right the
wrongs you helped commit to second
thinking alone r ’

Slowly, agonizingly, Terran Secre-
tary of State Glencannon Frost came
back through the dimensions and the

102

AMAZING

darknesses and the decades to his
duplex high in the Henry A. Kis-
singer Building where the historic
interview was being taped. He re-
aligned his shriveled body in. his
deep, leather-upholstered armchair,
as though to prevent the period piece
from devouring all that was left of his
flesh and bones. Simultaneously he
rested his cane across his atrophied
thighs. The pose was classic Glencan-
non Frost, a career-long companion to
the one where he stood, cane planted
firmly on the ground before him, both
hands resting on its globular knob,
gazing straight into the lens of what-
ever camera happened to be before
him.

His time-dulled eyes focused on
Anchorwoman Larrimore, whose
question had provided the fuel for his
return-trip from the stars. “Quite pos-
sibly my decision resulted, in part at
least, from a recrudescence of the ge-
netic guilt often found in members of
my ethnic group.”

“You are referring no doubt to
your — ours. I should say, for all of us
here are of ‘New World’ descent —
ancestors’ maltreatment of the
Amerinds T

“Yes,” Frost said.

“You were cited during the Mizar
‘demonstrations’, were you not,”
asked Phelan of WorldPress, “for
exemplary zeal in the performance of
your duties, and, after the Mizarites’
capitulation, decorated with the’
Platinum Star? How, sir. do you rec-
oncile this early determination of
yours to take away the .Mizarites’ land
with your subsequent determination
to give it back ”’

“I have never attempted such a rec-
onciliation. But I would hazard the
guess that, in addition to the genetic
guilt I mentioned a moment ago, my
moral metamorphosis resulted from a

CRUTCH

103

delayed ethical reaction to the looting
of the dune-hut village that ensued
the Battle of Bloody Ridge and to the
near-extennination by the 2435th of
the villagers’ repulsive housepets,
whose existence prior to that time was
unknown, both to us and to the Ter-
ran Authority.”

“But that was the typical aftermath
of every battle fought that day, was it
not”’ objected Avers of NewsCom.
“Moreover, if I recall Terran history
correctly, looting almost invariably fol-
lows victory in battle. One might go
so far as to call it a part of tradition.
As for the housepets you tried to
exterminate” — the shudder that shook
Avers’ ectomorphic frame was pre-
served along with his words by the
automated, globe-shaped audio-visual
recording unit that drifted like a
breeze-blown child’s balloon from in-
terx’iewer to interviewee and back
again — “I happen to have seen a
photo of one of the loathesome
creatures — the only photo ever taken
of them, I believe — and I should con-
sider it odd indeed if you hadn’t tried
to exterminate them.”

Anchorwoman Larrimore said, “It
has never been brought to light why
the Mizarites kept such peculiar pets
in their houses, doting on them, ap-
parently, much as we humans dote on
dogs. Do you know why, sir”’

“No,” Frost lied.

Deep in his mind, deep in the past,
deep in space, he recoiled as the sil-
very horror ran blindly out of the first
dune-hut he came to and streaked be-
tween his legs. His reaction was as in-
stinctive as it was conditioned: he piv-
oted, simiiltaneously lowering his
raze rifle, and aimed and blazed. Tbe
“snog” dissolved instantaneously into
a tiny mound of powdery dust that,
moments later, commingled with the
siliceous sand.

A second snog appeared in the
doorway of the dunehut on his right.
He got it before its tiny, agate-like
eye became accustomed enough to
the brilliant green-gold sunlight for it
to flee. Throughout the village, raze
rays flashed as the pet population
erupted. Some of the snogs — the
larger ones — ran in upright positions.
For some reason this made them
more repulsive yet. It also made them
harder to see, a difficulty com-
pounded by the way they blended
into their native background. But the
foot soldiers of the 2435th were crack
raze-riflemen : a few of the snogs
made it to the hills; the dust of the
thousands that didn’t became indis-
tinguishable from the siliceous sands
of their birthplace.

“Fra-NKLY. sir.”— Avers of

NewsCom — “1 find it difficult to be-
lieve that the tenuous pair of motives
you’ve supplied us could possibly
have been responsible for the one-
man jihad you embarked upon im-
mediately following your separation
from the Space Service; for the in-
credible one-upmanship you displayed
in your thirty-year campaign for the
post you now occupy and which you
virtually created yourself; or for the
tenacity you exhibited, both before
and afterward, in delaying Zone D
colonization and finally aborting it.
Overall, I simply cannot comprehend
how concern for a dead cause and
concern for one that should have been
dead could have combined to lend
you the necessary vitality and force to
coerce so sophisticated a political
body as the Terran Authority into re-
turning to its original owners a tract
of land as large as Texas and valued
conserv'atively at $50, 000, 000, 000; a
tract of land, moreover, that consti-
tutes the only habitable territory we

104

AMAZING

have thus far found among the stars.”

Frost said, “The real reason you
cannot understand, Mr. Avers, is to-
tally unrelated to the motives I pro-
vided you. It arises from a universal
defect of the human psyche. Men-
tally, each member of the human race
lives in a little cell built of bricks
shaped by his personal and vicarious
experiences and by those handed
down genetically from his ancestors.
Whenever he regards reality in any
form he does so through the bars of
that cell. As a result, everything he
sees is automatically reduced to the
commonplace, be it ever so pheno-
menal. When, to take a random
example, our prisoner sees an inhabit-
ed house, he immediately assumes
that the inhabitants either built it,
had it built, or were attracted by it,
bought it and moved in. Under ordi-
nary circumstances such an assump-
tion is harmless enough; it is when
our prisoner sees a similar inhabited
house under unordinary cir-
cumstances and makes the same as-
sumption that he leaves himself wide
open to the dangers inherent in mis-
conceptions. Because under unordi-
nary circumstances the exact oppK)site
of his assumption may be the case —
that is, the house, attracted by avail-
able inhabitants, bought them and
moved them in (or, in the absence of
available inhabitants, created them
and moved them in), possibly, though
not necessarily, for the purpose of
maintaining itself. And this is exactly
what our theoretical prisoner is inca-
pable of assuming, or, in most cases,
even of conceiving. It is this defect in
Man’s maniere de voir that doomed
him to fail in his attempted coloniza-
tion of space before he even got off
the ground.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you at all,
sir,” Avers of NewsCom said.

“But we haven’t failed in our at-
tempted colonization of space ” fer-
vently objected Phelan of WorldPress.
“Granted, thanks to your having fi-
nally prevailed upon our better na-
tures to give Zone d back to the In-
dians, so to speak, we’ve suffered a
severe setback. But we still have
searchships out there; there are other
stars, other worlds. The returns aren’t
all in yet — far from it.”

Old Glencannon Frost sighed.

Young Glencannon Frost paused
just within the doorway of a dune-hut
that was somewhat larger than its
neighbors. There was only one room;
there were no windows. A slanted
shaft of sunlight came through a small
smoke hole in the roof : all else was
gloom. Beneath the smoke hole, built
against the rear wall and just out of
range of the light, was a primitive
clay hearth. Ranged at intervals along
the base of the concave walls were a
number of grass-mat pallets, and in
the round room’s center stood a flat-
topped rock, indubitably the equiva-
lent of a table.

There were no utensils, no pieces
of pottery, no examples of native art;
the room, apparently, contained no
worthwhile artifacts of any kind. But
wait! — ^what was that on the mantel
above the hearth r —

Young Glencannon Frost pulled his
beamer from his belt —

Old Glencannon Frost said, “All
the returns do not need to be in, in
order for a campaign to be over.”

oviNG ON from the subject of
your motivation,” Anchorwoman Lar-
rimore said briskly, “can you tell us,
sir, why the score of the sagct you
took as part of your Space Army
entrance-exams is erroneously listed
in your record as a mere one-oh-
five r’

CRUTCH

105

“Why do you say ‘erroneously’, Ms.
Larrimore r ’

“Surely, in view of your later
achievements, it couldn’t possibly
have been correct, sir. The blithe
ease with which you sailed through
Princeton 2 ifter your separation alone
impugns it, while your stunning rec-
ord as consultant for SolCoInc and
your subsequent rise to the vice pres-
idency of the cartel renders it down-
right absurd.”

“I must say, Ms. Larrimore, you do
your homework well.”

“All of us do,” said Avers of News-
Corn smugly. “Add to the discrepancy
just pointed out by Ms. Larrimore the
following. In a secondary school com-
position you made this statement.”
Avers consulted his notes. “ ‘God
meant for more than the fish of the
sea and the birds of the air and the
beasts of the fields to be Man’s to do
with as he pleases : He meant the
stars too.’ Years later, in a speech
given at Yale on the occasion of your
receiving an honorary degree there,
you averred, ‘The criminal confisca-
tion of Zone D and the cruel transfer-
ence of its rightful inhabitants against
their will to the northern barrens of
Mizar II can, like the near-ecological
disaster of the late-twentieth century,
be traced back to words uttered in
good faith but in bad wisdom by a
well-meaning teacher of righteousness
in the kindergarten period of our
civilization when there existed no dis-
cernible limit to the bounty spread
out beyond the classroom window-
panes.’ How do you correlate these
two widely disparate statements, sir r ’

“Disregarding for the moment the
affront to my personal privacy implied
by your unconscionable prying into
my past,” Frost said coldly, “have
you, Mr. Avers — or you, Ms. Larri-
more, or you, Mr. Phelan —

wholeheartedly adhered in later years
to any of the beliefs you held sacred
in your youth r ’

“No, of course not.” Phelan of
WorldPress. “But we are the inter-
rogators, whereas you, sir, are the in-
terrogated. Furthermore, we happen
to represent — despite our common
ethnic background — the majority of
the peoples of Earth, who, in our
considered opinion, have been had.
By you.”

A faint quivering of Frost’s
shriveled lips suggested what might
have been a smile. The dull pain in
his faded brown eyes belied it. “No
more than I, Mr. Phelan — no more
than 1. But ultimately the victor may
find that the eye he so cruelly plucks
out in compensation for his own lost
joptic is his own lost optic.

“You talks in riddles, sir,” said
Avers of NewsCom.

“Not at all. What single characteris-
tic would you say — Mr. Avers, Ms.
Larrimore, Mr. Phelan — ^furnishes the
fuel that lifts a potentially intelligent
species out of the muck of nescience r
What is this fuel that provides the
remarkable energy that transforms a
lowly animal into the semblance of a
god r What really lies behind the wil-
led evolution we sometimes speak of
as the life force’? Without which any
species is doomed to crawl or trot or
brachiate till the Bard’s last syllable of
recorded time r

“I can see the sanctimonious word
poised on your toriguetips. ‘Ambition.’
Ambition — bah! The characteristic I
refer to is the urge to get even — with
the environment, with one another,
ultimately with other species — for real
or imagined wrongs. This is what en-
ables potentially intelligent creatures
to rise above their unmotivated
peers — to create, invent, subdue,
overcome — till they meet an enemy

106

AMAZING

similarly fueled but far more sly than
they. I speak of V'engeance. Ambition
is an abstraction — at best, a sweet
scent we add to the fuel to camou-
flage its noisome nature!”

“An interesting theory, sir,' —
Phelan of WorldPress— “but one, I
fear, that throws more light upon its
author than upon the human race.”

Old Frost said, “I was not referring
exclusively to the human race.”

Young Frost bathed the rear wall of
the dune-hut with the beamer’s
beam, bringing into sharp relief the
silvery object he had discerned upon
the mantle above the hearth. He
gasped; then, breathless, he strode
across the room and took the object
down. Instantly he felt cold, cruel
tentacles dig into his brain. His
beamer slipped from his fingers, fell for-
gotten to the floor. The tentacles
slightly relaxed their grip, but did not
withdraw. Frost knew they never
would.

Anchorwoman Larrimore said,
“We’ve found that our audiences ap-
preciate a human touch whenever a
great man such as yourself is inter-
viewed by members of the Media, so
if you don’t mind, sir, I would like to
ask a personal question or two before
our time expires. It is said — and in-
numerable tapes and still-shots bear it
out — that even as a college student
you carried a cane. Was it — has it al-
ways been — tbe same silvery one you
carry now r”

“Yes,” answered old Glencannon
Frost.

“Is it a Mizarite cane of the sort
that the natives, both male and
female, had with them during the
series of negotiations conducted by
the Terran Authority and which were
conspicuously absent during tbe sub-
sequent surprise attacks carried out

by the Authority when the negotia-
tions ultimately failed and which re-
appeared when the survivors of the
‘demonstrations’ were transported to
their New Home r In short, sir, is it a
souvenir that you somehow managed
to get through customs upon your re-
turn to Earth r ’

“It is,”

“In retrospect, sir,” Anchorwoman
Larrimore continued, “would you say
that your carrying it during your col-
lege- and early-career years, when
you have no need for such an assist,
was a deliberate attempt on your part
to lay the foundation for your forth-
coming public image ”’

“So it would appear.”

“Thank you, sir — ”

“One more question, please,” in-
terposed Phelan of WorldPress. “It
was pretty well established at the
time of the ‘demonstrations’ that the
so<'alled snogs were life-forms gener-
ated millennia ago by the interaction
of Mizar’s rays with the siliceous
sands of the Zone D area. Later, the
theory was advanced that these crea-
tures had a unique life-cycle, during
which their appendages gradually
atrophied and ultimately disappeared,
at which time death occurred and
petrifaction set in, and that in this fi-
nal, petrified form they were the
canes carried by the .Mizarites, That
are still carried by them to this day.
Can you throw any light on this mys-
tery, sirr’

“No,” Frost lied,

“I’m sorry, but our time has ex-
pired,” announced Anchorwoman
Larrimore. She threw a meaningful
glance at the audio-visual globe, and
tbe globe obediently floated over to
where she sat and went into hov'er-
position before her face. “Ladies and
Gentlemen, this is Anchorwoman
Priscilla Larrimore. You have just wit-

CRUTCH

107

nessed, and listened to, an interesting
interview with Terran Secretary of
State Glencannon Frost, conducted
by the World Network with the able
assistance of Baines Phelan of
WorldPress and Sidney Avers of
NewsCoin. Our questions now are
ended. We, the interviewers, will
soon be melted into air. We wish to
thank this noble gentleman sitting in
our midst for his kind cooperation and
you, our gentle audience, for your
kind concern, for we are such stuff as
news is made on, and our public lives
are bounded by your dials.”

Left alone. Frost lifted the cane
from his lap and stood it in an upright
position. He gazed into its single
agate-like eye, searching for compas-
sion and finding instead what he had
always found: naked hatred and an
utter inability to forgive.

“When beings like you are as good
as dead,” he said, “why don’t you
have the decency to die r ’

Because God gave us crutches to
walk with. But I, at least, shall
shortly die, since the task I was left

behind for is completed. However, I
shall not die alone.”

“No,” Frost said, “I didn’t think
you would.”

Unfortunately your merciless mas-
sacre of our children left us no other
choice.

Frost said, “I think you deliberately
left them in the villages so there
would be no other choice.” He
sighed. Then, “The equivalent of how
many H-bombs r’

You are confusing hyper-
psychotechnology with hypertechnol-
ogy, just as you always do, said the
cane. I contain the equivalent of a
clock — not the equivalent of a bomb. A
clock I’ve attuned, during this final
decade of our symbiosis, to the minds
of the guardians of the common US-
USSR-People’s Republic of China’s
thermonuclear stockpile. It remains
but for me to turn myself on.

“I should have guessed,” Frost
said. And then, resignedly, “How
long r ’

Tick, went the cane. Tick-tick-tick.

— Robert F. Young

ON SALE NOW IN FANTASTIC (Oct.)

THE MESA IS A LONELY PLACE TO DREAM AND SCREAM
AND DREAM BY CRANIA DAVIS, DEATH ETERNAL by
RAYMOND F. JONES, THE HAIRY PARENTS by A. BERTRAM
CHANDLER, LEASE HOLD by WALLACE WEST, ANOTHER
BURNT OUT CASE by BARRY N. MALZBERG, PRIDEY GOETH
by DAVID R. BUNCH, A MALADY OF MAGICKS by CRAIG
SHAW GARDNER, UPSHUTZ AND THE GOBLIN by MARVIN
KAYE, DEMON AND DEMOISELLE by JANET FOX, TAHITTI
IN TERMS OF SQUARES by JOHN SHIRLEY.

108

AMAZING

Letters intended for publication
should be typed, double-spaced, on
one side of each sheet, and addressed
to Or So You Say, Box 409, Falls
Church, Va. 22046.

Dear Ted;

Since an offhand line in my 50-year
history of sf article which appeared in
the June, 1976 Amazing seems to
have inadvertently touched off" a
major exchange on the magazine’s his-
tory, I claim a brief right of comment:
I think that Perry’s article in the May,
1978 issue is a remarkable work of
scholarship and a genuine contribu-
tion to the historic^ work which has
been done on the field in recent
years. To the degree that he is
correct — and 1 see no basis on which
to doubt his authenticity, research or
dependability — significant new insight
can be acquired.

Perry’s dogged work (for a histo-
rian, by the way, he writes remarka-
bly well; in fact he writes remarkably
well for a writer altogether) has the
corollary benefit of once again show-
ing that Sam Moskowitz, the self-
appointed and self-proclaimed histo-
rian of this field, just is not depend-
able and not trustworthy. If reaching
a kind of equivocal maturity means
that we have to see Gernsback for
what he was, then the same is con-
sequently true of Moskowitz. That
Sam seems to have this perception
also — that their reputations are irret-
rievably linked — may explain his bel-
lows of pain, rage and personal abuse

at the suggestion of truth.

Barry N. Malzberg
Teaneck, N.J. 07666

Dear Sir:

Tom Perry was kind enough to
send me an advance copy of your
May, 1978 issue of Amazing Science
Fiction Stories which contains his
article, “An Amazing Story: Experi-
menter in Bankruptcy.’’

I want you to know that, insofar as
it relies on information from me about
the bankruptcy, it is thoroughly accu-
rate.

Robert Halpern
Law Offices of Robert Halpem
225 Broadway
New York, N.Y., 10007

Dear Ted:

The sf community owes a debt to
Tom Perry for his enterprising re-
search. 1 found his article on Hugo
Gernsback (in the May issues) com-
pletely fascinating. Though 1 still feel
a certain gratitude to our Hugo for
printing my first stories, these fresh
facts certainly confirm my own old
impressions of his business methods.

I can add one small footnote. The
evidence seems pretty strong that
Gernsback took the Experimenter
mailing lists with him. Something else
1 know he took is a , manuscript of
mine, which 1 had submitted to
Amazing Stories. He wrote to offer
me “standard space rates” for using it
in the new Science Wonder Stories.

Naively-it was only my second

OR SO YOU SAY

109

stonj-l accepted the offer without ask-
ing what the "standard space rates”
would be. He printed the story as
"The Alien Intelligence.” A novelette,
2.5,000 words, it ran as a two-part se-
rial. His check, when it came, was
$75.00-about a quarter of a cent a
word. Amazing would have paid me
more.

Jack Williamson
Portales, N.M. 88130

Dear Mr. White;

I have never written to a magazine
before but now have to comment on
Tom Perry’s extremely biased article
re: Experimenter. First of all he
states the following facts: 1) 60-75% of
Experimenter’s liabilities were owed
to two companies — Art Color and
Bulkley Dunton & Co. 2) They had
an officer at Experimenter, a Mr.
Macklin, to protect their interests. 3)
A petition of involuntary bankruptcy
was taken against Experimenter on
Feb. 20, 1929. 4) The above petition
was not opposed. 5) Within six weeks
the companies were sold for an
amount equal to the net of liabilities
less assets plus $20,000 for legal fees.
6) Legal fees turned out to be $70-
80,000. 7) Federal taxes were assessed
at $40,000, later reduced to
$12,000— accounted for by bankruptcy
losses. 8) A final dividend of .85 was
paid to unhappy creditors. 9) Radio
station loss $80,000 in 1927-8. 10) The
Gernsbacks drew about $100,000 an-
nually.

Now hfe does not tell us: 1) monthly
income of Experimenter, that is the
monthly cash flow; 2) how past due
were the amounts owed, one day?
one week? one month? one year? 3)
why these companies saw fit to give
Experimenter over $300,000 credit in
1929 especially when they had an
overseer watching the funds; 4) why
with such large liabilities were the
notes so small, $2,000 each against a
total liability of over $100-8200,000.

Now may 1 please give my alternate
world idea of what happened, based

on the above facts. The holders of
60-75% of the liabilities of Experi-
menter either could not control the
Gernsbacks or they had a deal (an
offer they could not refuse) for the
Experimenter Co. In order to com-
plete this offer it was necessary to
place Experimenter in bankruptcy
without notice to the principals. No
one knows what negotiations were
underway when the judgments were
taken, but the Gernsbacks did not ex-
pect to be adjudged bankrupt and
could not protect themselves because
assets could be seized to satisfy a
judgment and these companies could
take judgments ad infinitum the
bankruptcy was not oppressed — the
Gernsbacks decided to go into busi-
ness again.

When a company goes bankrupt its
assets are normally sold for bargain
basement prices, however in this case
a deal was made to realize large sums
for the intangible assets in such a
short time that we can conclude that
the transactions were made before the
bankruptcy petition.

Based on the above 1 would think
that Hugo and Sidney Gernsback had
a case for saying the company was sto-
len from them. However we will not
know if Art and Bulkley gave the
Gernsbacks a chance to change
suppliers, reorganize on their own, or
close unprofitable divisions. We know
that they tried to force a sale to Mac-
fadden. It seems as if they did not
trust the Gernsbacks to lie down and
die unless they took the steps that
were taken.

Why am I writing? Perry’s insulting
style and biased reporting. He spent
time, effort and did an extremely
thorough job, for what? Was he mad
at Moskowitz, Gernsbacks, Of just
plain mean and snarky?

Gonclusions; Although I do not
know Perry, Moskowitz, or the
Gernsbacks and never met any of
them, the facts brought to light by
Mr. Perry seem to support Moskowitz
more than contradict him. For exam-

110

AMAZING

pie he overlooks a $40,000 income tax
claim, what profit in 1928,7,6 would
attract that much tax. I don’t know
but it must have been very big. Perry
bad two dusty boxes of documents
and only looked at the documents that
could prove his claims, anything else
went unreported. Not only that but
even when he could prove Moskowitz
wrong by the facts, Moskowitz was
right in the spirit.

After the Gernsbacks went back
into business, they apparently were
successful and had a long career,
likely with good credit, good relations
with their creditors, and a reasonable
source of authors. They do not seem
to be as unethical as Perry paints
them.

Stanley Silverman
4216 Ste. Helene
Chomedey, Quebec, H7W1P3,

Canada

p.S. Why the heck did you not see
the fantastic prejudice and onesided-
ness and refuse to publish?

Tom Perry replies:

Stanley Silverman’s letter about my
article on the bankruptcy of Experi-
menter Publishing Company reveals a
misapprehension about how research
is done, as evidenced by his state-
ment that “Perry had two dusty boxes
of documents and only looked at the
documents that could prove his
claims, anything else went unre-
ported.’’ Now aside from the fact that
this is impossible — how do you know
what a document contains unless you
look at it? — it assumes that I held
some preconceived “claims” which 1
then sought to substantiate, ignoring
contradictory evidence. Quite the op-
posite is true. 1 started with the as-
sumption that Sam Moskowitz’s ver-
sion of the bankruptcy was true, and
only looked up the story in the New
York Times out of idle curiosity.

And when 1 discovered, to my as-
tonishment, that a story that had been
circulated unchallenged in the SF
world for going on two decades was

patently false, I then started to try
finding out what really did happen. I
thank Silverman for saying I did “an
extremely thorough job,” and hasten
to assure him that I did not suppress
anything that would support the Mos-
kowitz version. There wasn’t any-
thing.

I cited all my sources in my
articles — the New York Times, the
court records, U.S. Supreme Court
Reports, and a lawyer who was in-
volved in the case — so that anyone
who wanted to could verify my state-
ments. I note with pleasure that one
reader — Steve Davidson of Cherry
Hill, N.J. — has already done so.

The questions Silverman would
have me answer are mostly unanswer-
able. As I said in the article, the Irv-
ing Trust Company destroyed most of
its records in the case in 1939. No
sinister motives can be assumed from
this — it is routine business practice.
Ten years had passed since the dis-
charge of the bankrupt. No charge of
conspiracy had been made publicly at
that time, and would not be for
another twenty years, when Sam
Moskowitz first published it in a
brochure.

So the monthly income of Experi-
menter can only be guessed at. I
would observe that if, as Silverman
suggests, it was “very big,” another
question arises : Why wasn t it used to
pay off the debts?

As for how old the debts were, we
have lawyer Robert Halpern’s state-
ment that they were “long overdue.”

Why did the printer and paper
supplier extend the credit? I don’t
know. Perhaps they expected the
Gernsbacks to pay.

And why were the notes to Art
Color Printing Company, which to-
taled $175,000, in the range of $2,-
000? I can only speculate that each
note represented the printing bill for
one issue of one magazine. That
would mean over eighty such notes.
With four quarterly and four monthly
magazines, they would then represent

OR SO YOU SAY

111

about a year’s worth of issues.

If the Gernsbacks "had a case for
saying the company was stolen from
them — then why didn’t they say so?
They did not contest the bankruptcy
petition and made no conspiracy
charges either through the courts or
the press. Hugo Gemsback was inter-
viewed by national newsmagazines
several times between 1929 and his
death in 1967; no charge of conspiracy
appears in these articles.

As for the method of deriving the
unusually high recovery rate from the
bankrupt corporation by continuing its
operations under different
management — ^this suggests not a con-
spiracy against the Gernsbacks, but
wise action by the creditors, backed
by the resources of the Irving Trust
Company. It has since been written
into the bankruptcy law as the stan-
dard way of paying ofiF the debts of a
company whose insolvency arose
through bad management.

I don’t know how to answer Sil-
verman’s charge of bias, other than to
echo his statement about not knowing
any of the principals personally. I do
admit to a belief in honest reporting
of facts, and confess I don’t under-
stand how Moskowitz can be “right in
the spirit” if he is “wrong by the
facts.’ Does there exist some higher
plane of existence, perceptible only to
cosmic minds, where the New York
Times said what Moskowitz says it
said?

Tom Perry
Boca Raton, fl 33432
If 1 may, as a postscript, deal with
Silverman’s P.S., I must say that “the
fantastic wejudice and onesidedness”
in this affair does not appear to oriei-
nate with Tom Perry, nor did I find it
in his article. Like everyone else, I
took the original Moskowitz story to
be truthful when I first encountered
it, and it was not until I read Tom’s
first piece on the subject — which ap-
peared here as a guest editorial in our
July, 1977 issue — that I realized that
Moskowitz’ s version might be moi e

mythological than factual. Things'
might nave stopped there but for
Sam’s response to that guest
editorial — his letter in our October,
1977 issue. His abuse of Perry, his
distortion of both what Perry had said
and the evident facts of the case, all
acted as a goad. It was time to clear
the air by researching the matter as
thoroughly as possMe, getting the
real facts out, and letting the chips
fall where they might. This Perry did,
and I think the three letters which
preceded Silverman’s bear out Perry’s
honesty and dilligence. I might add
that Silverman’s letter is the only
negative response we’ve received to
Perry’s article in our May, 1978
issue — and was received in a hand-
written form which required retyping
for inclusion here. I did receive a let-
ter from Sam Moskowitz before the
publication of Perry’s article — which 1
forwarded to Tom — in which Sam
warned me of possible lawsuits from
the Gemsback estate if we pursued
the matter further than had already
been done at that time. No
lawsuits — or threats thereof — nor any
further communications from Mos-
kowitz followed the publication of “An
Amazing Story: Experimenter in
Bankruptcy. ” — TW

Dear Ted:

My knowledge of Ray Palmer
primarily comes firom collecting back
issues of his magazines. He switched
to Flying Saucers about the time I
began buying SF magazines. But
through those six year old issues of
Other Worlds, I came to know Rap.
The fiction couldn’t touch what I was
reading each month in Cele
Goldsmith’s Amazing and Fantastic
but Cele was just a name on a mast-
head. The editorials were even by
•someone else. With a Palmer
magazine, you could not miss his
presence.

It made enough of an impression on
me that years later, while buried in
Vietnam, I wrote Rap a fan letter ask-

112

AMAZING

ing him why he didn’t give SF another
go. He never answered but I’m glad I
thanked him for the enjoyment he
had given me.

He was a promoter and a good one
but he was also a good editor. When
it is all added up, I hope fans re-
member that Palmer published some
excellent Stories by V’an Vogt (“"En-
chanted Village”), Bradbury (“Way in
the Middle of the Air”), and Russell
(“Dear Devil”).

Palmer gave Edgar Rice Burroughs
his only steady market during the 40’s
and the results were erb’s best stories
of his last two decades. P. Schuyler
Miller said he could forgive Palmer
for the Shaver Mystery just for giving
us the Hoka series. There were some
gems even in the pure pulp. Rog
Phillips’ “So Shall Ye Reap” was a
gripping novel despite its many flaws.

I can even forgive Rap his excesses
because they were interesting. Palmer
began the Shaver thing to prove a
|X)int to Howard Browne, who had
tossed the first Shaver manuscript in
the trash can. Actually, there were
two points: a) one man’s crackpot is
another’s prophet and b) he could
make a writer out of anyone with an
imagination and a vocabulary of 800
words.

You have to like an editor who will
spend four pages of his magazine re-
plying to a hostile letter saying he
knew Shaver couldn’t write (or plot or
spell or type) but he had imagination.
“Don’t you think I know the faults in
Bryne’s writing? In Shaver’s? In Phil-
lips?,” he answered Don Wilson’s let-
ter in February’ 1953.

On editing: “Editing, Don, isn’t
what you think it is. Editing isn’t
what most editors think it is. Most
editors are editors because it was the
job they managed to land, and the
money they earn keeps them in it!
The money, not the joyous exercise of
their talent and the grateful acquiring
of ability in that talent.”

That sarne reply contained what
could stand as Rap’s epitaph: “I look

at life with an eagerness to learn ev-
erything I can, but not just to learn.
To be able to do, is my ambition. I
have certain talents, but I realize
humbly they are extremely minor,
and very rare. I am forced, because of
lack of real talent, to work to develop
abilities to compensate. I want to
make things. With my hands and my
brain I want even to know how to
create a world and be able to do it. I
want to live billions on uncounted bil-
lions of years, and work all the time. I
want to face problem after problem,
more difficult than before. I want to
strive to my utmost. And when I’ve
finished with a thing, I want it to be a
source of happiness to my fellow
man. . .1 want to give it as a gift to
those I love, you people, readers,
writers, editors, fellow workers.”
Thanks, Rap, for all the gifts.

Richard A. Moore
2148 Fairhaven Circle NE
Atlanta, Georgia 30305
I think you've summed up my own
feelings on Ray Palmer very well.~

-TW

Dear Ted,

Happy days are here again with
Amazing! Your May 1978 issue is
tops. I really enjoyed Tom Perry’s ar-
ticle, “An Amazing Story: Experiment
in Bankruptcy.” As a Galaxy reader, I
do recognize Charles Sheffield. His
new story ,_ “Sight of Proteus” indi-
cates, as you have pointed out, that
this new science fiction writer will
have a definite impact. Nonetheless,
his bio-form change projects science
fiction into a distance future that
holds new wonders for the human
form and for man. Man- Woman inter-
change provides a concern not only
for the physical change over but for
the physiological effects. It will be in-
teresting to see how Charles Sheffield
develops other stories in his series.

Roy D. Schickedanz
910 Sherwood Lake Dr., #3-B
Schererville, Ind. 46375

OR SO YOU SAY

113

Editorial (cont. from page 4 )
the huge success sci-fi is now enjoying
in Hollywood. He could never have
predicted that the most p<mular
movie of all time would be a sci-fi pic-
ture called Star Wars, much less that
it would achieve its stunning success
at the box-office within less than a
year (unlike perennials like Gone With
the Wind, vvmich took years to break
records).

Looking back, it’s very easy to un-
derstand what happened, even if it
was less obvious to predict.

'Science fiction makes special de-
mands upon its readers. To begin
with, the reader must be willing to
accept situations and ideas which
stretch one’s intelligence and imagina-
tion. This has never been popular;
every stf fan can think of instances in
school when he or she was ridiculed
by classmates for “believing in that
junk.” Superficially this may seem
less true today, but only suporficially.
The mental elasticity required to “get
into” real science fiction is simply not
common in our culture — nor any
other, for that matter.

The phrase most commonly linked
with that of science fiction over the
past thirty or more years is “sense of
wonder.” A stf reader cannot help but
have this sense, this almost mystical
awe at the grandiose wonders of our
vast universe, and the magical delight
in exploring those wonders.

The magic of the printed word is
that it suggests so much more than it
says: it stimulates our minds to create
what has only been sketched in print.
Reading fiction for pleasure is a
minority activity in our society. Even
the best-selling works of fiction reach
only one out of every hundred — or
even less — of the citizens in this
country. Many children grow up dis-
liking reading, regarding it as a chore,
forced up)on them in schools. As
adults they will read newspapers and
non-fiction magazines, iE they read at
all. Why?

Because they never learned that
they could use their imaginations

when they read fiction: that they
could visualize and mentally recreate
what they read about.

Television has help)ed this process
along; the estimates of functional illit-
eracy in the United States are higher
today than they were thirty years ago.
When a box will present you with
ready-made visual images, why bother
to do it yourself? The more television
has improved, technically, the more
insidious its appeal has become, and
the more perfectly it has substituted
itself for individual imagination.

Science fiction has never been com-
fortably suited to the visual media. So
much that we could mock up in our
minds’ eyes is all but impossible to
create on a screen. The very lack of
definition in one’s mental image could
keep it magical and awesome; the re-
alization of the same image on film or
tap)e is inevitably pedestrian.

Wbat, then, are we to make of the
new popularity of sci-fi in the visual
media, especially the movies?

There have been some major tech-
nical advances in filmmaking which
have helped narrow the gap. Com-
puter graphics — described here in
Gregory Benford’s The Science in Sci-
ence Fiction several years ago — ^are
coming into their own, and still are in
the pioneer form.

. But, basically, it’s not tbe same.

The images are ready-made. The
audience has only to sit back, passive,
and accept what s fed to it. Little ac-
tive participation is required. One can
leave one’s imagination at home.

There are more people around who
consider themselves “unimagi-
native” — or never considered the
point at all — than there are those who
enjoy the stimulation of their imagina-
tions. This has always been true and
seems likely to remain that way.

They make a much bigger audi-
ence.

Which leaves science fiction in the
genre ghetto, for better or worse,
languishing still, while something
which has apjed its appearance and
(cont. on page 125

114

EDITORIAL

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115

You may know Glen Cook for his novel. Heirs of Babylon. Here, in
short close focus, he tells the brief story of —

PONCE

GLEN COOK

Illustrated by TONY GLEESON

For me it started the day we got the
new car. New in that we didn’t have
it before. It was a ’62 Continental that
the dude painted canary yellow (with
a broom, it looked like) to get me to
take it. It was our first. You got six
kids, one trying to make the breakout
in college, push a broom and moon-
light as a watchman, and have a
mama that’s got to go to the kidney
machine every three days and has
diabetes besides, food stamps don’t go
very far, even if you can trade them
off for something besides beans. We
were proud of that car. Seven years
we’d been saving pennies and nickels
in a big lard can I got from the bak-
ery. Once some kids broke in and got
it, but that was early, when there was
only a few dollars. We hid it good
after that. Nobody ever found it.

First thing we did was go for a
ride, cats and all. Sarah borrowed a
camera from our downstairs neighbor,
Wanda, and got some film with
money she had, and we went to the
zoo, then just rode around, showing it
off.

People looked. That car was ugly-
The kids all grinned and waved. The
cats got sick and kept trying to get
out.

We got home with some daylight
and film left. Sarah wanted some pic-

tures of the kids and car in front of
the house. Blues maker. One run-
down two family flat in the middle of
a block where most of the buildings
had been demolished, leaving a stony,
bricky, weedy desert, littered with
old tires and bedsprings that appeared
overnight, like magic mushrooms.
The few surviving flats rose like dirty,
scattered teeth in an old man’s
mouth.

But the high of the car, of success,
kept on. When Lania, our ten year
old daughter, came up with another
cat, found only she knew where, we
hardly argued.

Then our boy Arivial, our youngest,
came back with a dog. I put my foot
down, but not hard enough. A lot of
angry words, and some tears, and the
dog had a home.

It wasn’t the arguments that con-
vinced me. It was that dog’s eyes.

That was the strangest dog I ever
seen. One of them little hairy ones,
Scottie I think, black as night, bony
as death, wanting to be friendly but
nervous about it, like some white
dude you’ve been working with for
years who’s friendly on company time
but don’t know how you want he
should act when you meet him out-
side.

It was his eyes. You ever see a dog

116

AMAZING

with blue eyes? Not blue like some
blond white dude. Not like a kitten.
Not like the sky, or turquoise, or any-
thing light, but none of the darks
either. A blue with depth. And, if
you’ve ever looked at a dog’s eyes,
you know they’re all color, kind of a
brownish gold outside the pupil. Not
these eyes. Outside the blue, that
looked kind of deep and far away like
the colored things inside the marbles
kids call cateyes, they were clear as
glass. My first thought was that he
did have marbles for eyes. They were
round and a little more forward on his
head than most.

That whole dog was strange, but his
eyes had a life of their own.
Whenever I looked straight at them I
felt like I was falling in, like I was
watching a space show on Wanda’s tv
where Star Trek was coming to some
planet. It scared me shitless.

I told Sarah maybe we better take
him to the Humane Society, maybe
something was wrong. Didn’t want
the kids to get bit. He didn’t have no
tags. She said we didn’t have no
money. Wouldn’t till Friday, when
the bakery check came, and that had
to go for rent. Eighty bucks and we
didn’t even get hot water. Four
rooms. It would have to wait. Maybe
a long time. Next week was food
stamps, then gas and electric, and cat
and dog food, and clothes and shoes
because school was starting and the
younger ones were getting too big for
last year’s. . . . It’s hard sometimes,
but I never been in no trouble.
Neither have my kids, which makes
me proud. It’s harder for them.
They’re growing up with people who
steal and cheat all the time. Only
thing any of us ever did was some-
times get Sarah a carton of Kools with
the food stamps.

Maybe Arivial could find some soda

PONCE

117

bottles, but that was always a hassle.
The dude at the confectionary always
thinks he stole them. We never buy
no soda.

If you think I’m old fashioned, sav-
ing up to buy a car and not trying to
break the system and raising my kinds
the same, I guess you’re right. That’s
the way I was raised. Times was dif-
ferent then.

Arivial named the dog Ponce. He
didn’t seem so spooky when you
didn’t look at his eyes. He settled right
in, most of the time acted just like
any other dog. He barked at strang-
ers. He bounced around with happy
whines any time anybody came home,
especially Arivial from school. He re-
ally was Arivial’s dog. He growled at
me when I growled at the boy. Only
three days after we picked him up, he
bit a kid when some boys tried to
steal Arivial’s new shoes. I thought
there would be some trouble, but no-
body ever came around. Those boys
must’ve been afraid of the trouble
they’d get if they squawked.

Guess you get used to anything if
it’s around you all the time, like hav-
ing less than most, or a dog with blue
eyes. It’s just there and, unless you
trip over it, you don’t much notice.
Unless you’re young and you’ve got
time to look around. That’s one prob-
lem for the kids today. They’ve got
the time. We didp’t when I was
young. Too busy trying to stay fed. I
worked all my life. Started picking
cotton with my folks in Arkansas
when I was barely big enough to
walk. Only way I know. You get to
my age, you’re pretty set in your
ways.

You’ve got to figure on what you’re
hungry for, too. My parents would’ve
thought our flat a mansion. A man’s
big goal, them days, was to bring his
wife to the city. Now Bobby, my old-

est, was getting his foot on the next
step up.

That Ponce was a smart pup.
Wasn’t a week before Arivial had him
doing tricks. And there vvere some he
figured for himself, like how to get
out the screen door when it wasn’t
locked.

I came in from the bakery one
night, to eat and get my watchman’s
uniform, and found Sarah all worried.
Kids and cats and Ponce were all out-
side. The Lincoln was gone. I figured
Bobby was off with his Mary Taylor
again. I didn’t see much of that car
during the week. I hoped he wasn’t
wasting his book money.

Sarah said Arivial was talking to
Ponce. I thought, so whatr Ev-
erybody does. The cats too. But she
said it was like they were talking seri-
ous, only Ponce just sat there real
quiet and stared with those eyes. The
boy had been telling her what Ponce
had told him. She was afraid he
wasn’t playing pretend, that he really
believed it. I said, well. I’ll talk to
him when I get a chance.

I was starting to be sorry that I let
the kids have the pets. They cost too
much even when we didn’t get all the
shots and tags. And I was sorry about
the car, too, a little bit. Bobby wasn’t
home much anymore. He might get
in trouble, might have a wreck, you
know how you think.

It was a Sunday morning before
church when I finally caught Arivial
talking to Ponce the way that worried
Sarah. You ever listen to a kid talking
to a pet f When they don’t know
you’re there? They get real serious,
telling their problems. That dog, see,
he don’t tell no secrets, don’t brush it
off, don’t make fun. He sits there and
listens, and knows it’s important,
even if he don’t understand. That’s
why kids need pets, I guess. A pet’s

118

AMAZING

always got the time.

That’s what Arivial was doing, only
it was going like half a conversation.
The boy would say something, ask a
question, wait a while, then ask one
or two questions about the answers he
seemed to have gotten. I don’t re-
member what his problem was. It
wasn’t something a grownup would
think important. After I listened a
while, I went and sat by Arivial. He
was surprised but Ponce wasn’t.
Ponce always seemed to know where
everybody was. I scratched his ears.

I told Arivial I understood about
Ponce, but his mother didn’t, that
him talking to the dog all the time
scared her. Especially when he told
her what Ponce said back. He said
Ponce did talk to him, with his eyes,
and why should he lie r I always told
him not to lie.

I said he didn’t have to, just don’t
tell your mother, it makes her un-
happy. He butted me some buts,
then said okay. No more talking to
Ponce where she’d hear, no more tell-
ing her what he said.

All the time Ponce sat there looking
at me with those eyes, making me
feel guiltier and guiltier. I got the
feeling he was trying to tell me some-
thing, too, so I mostly looked away.

That took care of it for a week.
Then it was Liana complaining. Don’t
know why she was upset. She was al-
ways talking to the cats. But I
straightened that out, too. Then it
was another of the kids, and another,
till there was nobody left but me and
Bobby, the two that was home the
least. It got to be a puzzle. None of
them bothered to explain, just to
complain.

I finally got some time free, late in
October, after Ponce had been with
us two months. I took Arivial and
Ponce to the park. You weren’t sup-

posed to let dogs run loose there, but
I took a chance Ponce would behave
like always and stay by Arivial. He
did.

I had kind of a suspicion that I
asked about then, and Arivial admit-
ted that he’d known Ponce a while
before he’d asked if the dog could
stay with us. I nodded, smiled. Ari-
vial told me how smart Ponce was,
staying out of sight those days. I said
yes. I never argued with how smart
that dog was. He was the smartest I
ever seen.

I asked what they talked about.
School stuff, he said. Ponce could ex-
plain things better than his teacher.
He made it fun. And there wasn’t no
dumb stuff, like history. I asked what
kind of stuff. Mostly arithmetic, he
said.

I was beginning to see why the
others had been bothered. Arivial
wasn’t playing pretend at all. I asked
why didn’t he show me. He’d always
been interested in arithmetic. Did
real good at it in school. I’d played
games with him before. That’s what I
expected then.

But what he scratched in the dirt
with a stick looked like chicken
tracks. I thought about Bobby’s col-
lege books. This didn’t look the same.
But I really couldn’t tell. I only went
to school now and then when I was a
kid, and only got my grade school
equivalency now. I want to do high
school, but there just isn’t time.

I asked what it was. He said some
fancy words I didn’t know he knew,
then said that Ponce didn’t know our
notation so he’d had to learn Ponce’s.
Took me a minute to figure out what
he meant. Then I said, well, why
didn’t he use some of the older kids’
books to learn r I was just going along,
figuring he’d seen Bobby’s books and
was making up something that looked

PONCE

119

the same. He said he’d never thought
about that.

There was peace around the house
for a month. At least, nobody came to
me complaining. Then Arivial brought
home a note from his teacher.

It didn’t say nothing but that Sarah
should come in after school. She was
so upset, so sure he was in trouble,
that she wouldn’t go. Arivial said he
didn’t know what it was about. Next
day I took off early and went down.

His teacher and principal were both
waiting. Liana had had that teacher
last year. I didn’t like her. She was
the kind that thought you was against
her if you taught your kid to brush his
own teeth. But the principal was all
right.

Wasn’t no trouble, though. The
principal did most of the talking.
About where was Arivial learning
arithmetic? The teacher just said she
was awed. The principal said Arivial
was doing high school work already,
maybe higher. She thought he was a
genius. Would I mind did they ar-
range for him to take some tests r

Then the teacher said that if he was
a genius, he should get special train-
ing. I was surprised. I got in an un-
kind word when they asked did I
know about Arivial’s talent. Well, yes,
I said, but I never said anything be-
cause of Liana last year. After that
everybody told everybody how sorry
they was, but by then I wasn’t listen-
ing. I was thinking about Ponce.

I still didn’t believe Arivial was re-
ally talking to him, but I worried that
maybe he thought he was. Maybe the
boy was a genius like they said, but
what if he had to have Ponce to make
it work? So he could believe in him-
self? I could fix it so he could study at
home, but not so Ponce would live
forever. Even if he was lucky and
lasted maybe twelve years, there

would be Arivial without him when
he was twenty-one.

Teacher and principal were saying
was it all right did they let some
people from the universities see Ari-
vial. If he studied fancy arithmetic ?
Math, they said. He’d still have to
study the regular stuff with the other
kids. He wasn’t no genius at every-
thing. Sure, fine, I said. I’d be proud.
But why were they so excited ?

They said some things but I didn’t
listen. They weren’t telling the truth.
That was in their faces. They looked
like old prospectors who had finally
struck gold. Arivial was going to make
them famous. I hedged then. Said ev-
erything was fine by me, sounded
good, but I wanted to talk to Sarah
and Arivial first.

I saw what could happen. Some
good things could be done for Arivial,
but it could be turned into a circus
that would hurt him more. You hear
about things like that in the news
sometimes.

I just wanted to talk to Arivial.
I knew what Sarah would say.
She wouldn’t want no part of
it. She wanted her kids to be normal,
as much like other kids as possible, to
keep their heads down so to speak.
She didn’t realize that it was a new
age, that some of the doors really
were open a crack.

Arivial was waiting out front, scared
to death. Sarah was waiting too, only
upstairs, peeking out the blinds.

I told the boy what happened. At
first he relaxed, then he got scared
again when he realized people were
going to make a fuss over him. He
was always kind of quiet and private,
and got embarrassed any time a
stranger said something nice. He
asked me did he have to take the
tests and everything. I told him no,
that was why I was talking to him, to

120

AMAZING

see if he wanted to. I said the school
wanted to get him some special
teachers, and like that, until I was
sure he knew what it was all about.
Then I told him to make up his mind
himself. Maybe he should talk to
Ponce about it.

I don’t know why I said that. I felt
silly afterwards. He said yeah, that’s
what he’d do.

Later, almost bedtime, he came to
the warehouse where I was watchman
and whispered that he’d take the tests
and things so he could study. He said
Ponce thought it was a good idea, that
he should learn as much as he could
as fast as he could so he’d know how
to say the things he really had to say,
just in case something happened. I
didn’t understand, but I said okay. I’d
come to school on my lunch hour and
tell his teacher.

It went all right. After he got over
being shy, Arivial liked the attention.
And he got lots of it. The university
people seemed like good folks,
mostly, and they didn’t get any news-
paper or tv people coming around.
His teacher and principal were disap-
IKtinted about that, I think. Sarah got
used to the idea, started getting
proud. Only Bobby was a problem,
and he wasn’t a big one.

The old bar kept breaking down
and I wouldn’t let him spend his col-
lege money to fix it. His romance
died off because of that. Made him
grouchy for a while, so he took it out
on Arivial for getting into his books.
He threatened to spank him or go
join the Army, depending on who he
was talking to. He got over it. By
then Arivial had finished his books.
He’d passed Bobby by.

The more he learned, the faster he
went. Sometimes, when I could get
away early, I went to school with him
and talked to the university people.

They used a lot of big words to do it,
but what they said was that Arivial
was starting to figure things out for
himself They could teach him some-
thing and he could almost, but not
quite, tell them what came next.

What puzzled them was that he had
his own system worked out and had
to translate back and forth. They said
he might be more than just a genius.
The rate he was going, getting faster
and faster, it wouldn’t be long before
they ran out of things to teach. They
talked about sending away for
teachers who knew more than they
did. They were always all very ex-
cited.

Those nights I’d go home and stare
at that blue-eyed dog and wonder.
Somehow, he seemed the smaller
miracle.

Summer came again. The university
people wanted to take Arivial to
California. He wanted to go, and to
take Ponce.

Sarah said no. She wasn’t letting no
ten year old son of hers go nowhere
for three months with no honkey
strangers. When she talked hard and
bitter like that, I didn’t argue. I knew
she wasn’t going to change her mind.

So they brought the men from
California to him. And a Dr. Conklin
from back east, and even a man from
Germany or someplace over there. I
started getting real scared. They were
spending more money than I made in
a year, working two jobs, just to help
my son learn math. I started thinking
about things like Russian spies and
the government looking Arivial up to
protect him.

You can’t keep secrets forever,
especially when you got big-mouthed
kids, a proud wife, and so many ex-
cited teachers. One day a radio man
came to ask if he could interview Ari-
vial on his station. Sarah got excited.

PONCE

121

I got more scared, the kids got jeal-
ous, and we all decided it was up to
Arivial. I thought he could handle it.
Being around all those college people,
he’d changed. He was like a little boy
with a grown man inside. When he
was serious. Other times he was his
own age. He loved baseball. Some-
times he complained about missing
out on that when he studied.

His all-time hero was Lou Brock
and he wanted to grow up and play
left field for the Cardinals. He kept
saying he’d be like Einstein af-
terwards, when he got old. That
bothered me some. I thought maybe
they were pushing too hard. Maybe
he should take some time off. But he
didn’t want to. Math was fun too.

I worried all the time, seems like.

Acting like that grown man, he did
good on the radio. He talked about
Ponce, but he was smart. He told his
truth, but did it so everybody thought
he was jiving them. He did the same
thing later, on the tv. People were
never sure how to take him.

I went downtown with him for the
tv thing, wearing my church clothes.

I was more nervous than him. He
wanted to take Ponce, but I said bet-
ter not.

Sarah worried too, but she was also
proud. Now she really had something
to brag to her fnends about. Me too,
except I didn’t start till somebody
asked. Sort of embarrassed, you
know. Me so ignorant and him so
smart. But everybody kept telling me
how great it was, even Mr. Kassel-
baum at the bakery, who hardly ever
came out of the office except to chew
somebody out.

But it got to be too much, espe-
cially after, with help from this physi-
cist, Dr. Conklin, Arivial wrote this
article about hologrammatic numbers.
He didn’t know how to spell right or

how to put the words down, but he
knew the numbers. After that all
kinds of people came to the house.
We tried to be nice, but you couldn’t
get anything done. Just because my
kid was smart didn’t mean I should
stop working, though Mr. Kasselbaum
and the security company were good
about me missing if I had to. And
Sarah had the house and the kids had
school, and Arivial was busier than
anybody, trying to keep up with regu-
lar school, his special teachers, work
on another article he wanted to write,
Ponce, and all the people who wanted
to talk to him.

It hurt some people’s feelings and
made some others mad, but we finally
had to stop seeing anybody but fami-
ly, fnends, and the university people.
Arivial kept telling me his new pro-
ject was hard, that even Ponce had
trouble explaining it because people
still didn’t have the concepts. Before
they could really understand they
would have to learn the hologramma-
tic notation.

Dr. Tlonklin tried to tell me about
it. He said the new math would mod-
ify, prove, and expand some of Ein-
stein’s work. He was the translator, so
to speak, the man who’d write it up
so people could understand. He was
having trouble, too, smart as he was.
He said it was as much philosophy as
physics and math, but when they got
it straight it could be used to explain
lots of things scientists had been hav-
ing trouble with for years. I just kept
nodding my head till he decided I
was as smart as Arivial.

About that time Bobby found him a
new girlfnend and had to have the car
all the time. It was broke down more
than it ran. Every time it died we had
to wait and scrimp to get it fixed, plus
saving up for licenses and insurance,
that I never thought about when I

122

AMAZING

bought it. That old thing was more
trouble than it was worth. I would’ve
sold it except for Bobby.

This Dr. Conklin wasn’t only in-
terested in Arivial. Sometimes he’d
start talking about Nobel Prizes and
look greedy, but I guess that’s just
the way people are.

Bobby kept the car fixed and
started running around. This time he
was so involved that he didn’t care
about anything else. I found out he
was getting into his school money for
gas and things. He wouldn’t listen
when I tried to talk to him.

Arivial and Dr. Conklin kept get-
ting more and more excited. They
were getting close. Though he didn’t
believe Arivial was really learning
from Ponce, he kept telling the boy to
spend time with him. Told me he fig-
ured any way a man got his mind
working was all right, even talking to
dogs. Only the output counted. I
agreed some and didn’t agree. You
could push it too far.

The way they talked, they had their
paper down to the final match. I got
the feeling mobs of people were wait-
ing to grab it. More and more people
came to the house, though we kept
telling them to go away.

There was something about it on
the radio, the tv, or in the newspa-
pers every day. Everybody was on
about the ten year old who was open-
ing a whole new view of the universe.
Part of the paper got pirated and
printed and scientists started fighting
like dogs around a bitch in heat.
Some said it was another break-
through to understanding as impor-
tant as Newton’s or Einstein’s. Some
others said it was the biggest fraud
since organized politics. On the tv,
right after one of these men had his
say, they would show Arivial talking
about Ponce.

I still think I took that dog more
serious than anybody but Arivial.
Sometimes I would just sit and stare
at him for an hour. And sometimes
he’d open one eye and sort of smile,
as much as a dog can. I thought about
trying to talk to him, just to convince
myself he was only a dog, but I never
got around to it. Maybe I was scared
I’d be wrong. If I was, that meant I
had to think about a whole lot of
other things, like how could a dog
talk, how come he was so smart, how
come he had blue eyes, and so on.

Sometimes I think about that any-
way. Maybe it’s just because I’m too
ignorant to know better.

The car broke down again. Water
pump. When I came home from the
bakery, there was Bobby fixing it. I
got mad. Really mad. He’d been
spending all his money and time on
the car and his girlfriend. Sarah said
he’d started cutting classes. I really
gave it to him.

He took it for a while because I
don’t get on him that much and, any-
way, he knew he was wrong. But
when I started talking about his girl
he blew up. We never came closer to
fighting. He jerked the last bolt into
place, slammed the hood, wiped his
hands, jumped in, roared away. For
about ten feet.

Ponce managed just one surprised
yip.

My god, Bobby said, jumping out,
my god. Pop, I didn’t mean. . . . I’m
sorry. . . .

I hadn’t seen him cry since he was
eleven. Didn’t see him too good this
time. It was hard to see through my
own tears. I went to the dog. Ponce,
I said, Ponce. ... But there was
nothing I could do. He was dead.

One by one the other kids turned
up, and their friends, and Sarah and
Wanda, and almost everybody in the

PONCE

123

neighborhood. A lot of the kids cried.
They’d all liked Ponce. Nobody knew
what to do.

All the time I was looking at those
eyes. After a while the blue started
fading. For a moment they were clear
as colorless marbles, then they went
dark. I thought I saw a lot of little
lights swirling around in there, then
they faded too. Might have been the
street lights. They were just coming
on. Then they were just plain dog’s
eyes.

Arivial was with Dr. Conklin, but
he’d be coming home soon. We just
kept standing around till a cop came
by and asked what was going on. I
told him. He remembered me and
Ponce from tv. Told us not to block
the street and went on. So I finally
picked up Ponce and took him up-
stairs.

Arivial took it better than I ex-
pected, but he was hurt. Bad. He
mostly stayed to himself for a few
days, not doing anything but going to
school and sometimes talking to Dr.

Conklin. Conklin was upset too. Just
another week, he kept saying, and
they would’ve had it.

When Arivial got over it he went
back to work. But he’d changed. He
wasn’t dumber, but he was a lot
slower. It’s been a year now and
they’re still trying to finish up. Ari-
vial’s showing the way, but without
Ponce he can’t get there except by
inches.

The university people tried to con-
vince him that he didn’t need Ponce.
It didn’t work. Maybe it was all in his
head, maybe it wasn’t. I’m not sure. I
don’t think I ever will be.

A couple weeks after Ponce died
Arivial said something that still makes
me wonder. He said Ponce wasn’t re-
ally dead, that he just went back. It
was only a dog that Bobby killed.
Ponce would come home if he really
needed him.

And maybe that would be true
even if the dog’s talking was all in his
imagination.

— Glen Cook

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mannerisms — ^and which I call “sci-
fi” — goes on to ever-greater popular
success.

We saw it coming; our only mistake
was in assuming this would be limited
to the world of the printed word

when there are a hundred people out
there who don’t like to read for every
one of us who does.

“Sci-Fi” inay be the death of us.

— ^Ted White

125

If you cant change the environment, maybe you can change the
people . . .

LAST ROCKET FROM
NEWARK

JACK C. HALDEMAN II

Illustrated by Joe Staton

The sun rose slowly over the gigan-
tic oil tank, suffusing the smoggy air
with a pallid glow. Smokestacks
belched the last of the night shift’s
garbage into the air as the turnpike
filled with bumper-to-bumper cars inch-
ing their way towards New York
City. Calvin rolled over and shut off
his alarm clock.

Wiping away the black dust that
had settled on the clock’s &ce over-
night, he greeted the day with his
usual cheerful optimism. The water
pipes clanked and rattled at him; he
grinned at the familiar sound. He
flipped on the radio as he hopped out
of bed.

Humming happily to himself, he
shaved while listening to a bored
newscaster announce that a smog alert
was being posted for the 23rd con-
secutive day. Got a ways to go to beat
the record of 205 days set back in ’83.
Oh well, that was for other people to
worry about. He washed the lather
from his face, noticing absently that
the water was a rusty brown this
morning.

Calvin walked over to the window
and opened it briskly, letting in the
morning smells and sounds. As his

room overlooked the turnpike, the
traffic noises were the loudest but
without difficulty he could hear
obscure clanking sounds from the oil
refinery. Certainly he caught the
smells from the refinery, but he
scarcely noticed them. He had been
smelling it for all his 26 years, it was
a part of the normal background of his
life.

Energetically, he touched his toes
and did pushups, ending with deep
knee bends in front of the open win-
dow. It was his day off and he
couldn’t wait to get started. He drank
a quick cup of coffee and ate some
toast. When he finished, he changed
into a gray sweatsuit and trotted down
the 25 flights of stairs to street level.

Jogging was one of his great de-
lights. He jogged every chance he
got. Although he owned a car, he sel-
dom used it except to go into the city.
Not Newark, but New York City —
The Big Apple, home of bright lights,
tinsel, muggers and gang warfare. He
loved it. It made him feel alive.

But he loved his morning jaunts
more. Even on weekdays he jogged to
the factory. On his day off his favorite
pastime was to jog around the

126

AMAZING

perimeter of Newark Airport. Such a
variety of scenery, such excitement; a
real monument to man’s greatness.

.The side of the airport nearest him
bordered on the New Jersey
Turnpike. It was such a thrill to jog
alongside 16 lanes of traffic. As usual
there was a backup of cars and ev-
eryone was just inching along, spew-
ing great clouds of exhaust fumes
which rose a few feet and hung there.
He waved at the' grim, determined,
faces; some he recognized from previ-.
ous jogs. Many were honking their'
horns, shouting and waving their fists
at the other drivers. Calvin smiled. It
made him feel a part of the great
brotherhood of man.

On his left was one of the runways
of the airport. He loved to watch the
great planes take off and land, their
swollen bellies full of passengers and
cargo. All the noise and excitement
made his heart pound. On a rare clear
day he could almost make out the
control tower sitting in the middle of
the airport. He could imagine the
harried air controllers as they tried,
often in vain, to co-ordinate the many
planes. He grinned. A job for ev-
eryone and for everyone a job.

What really set his heart aflutter
were the rare occasions when he got
to see one of the new Jumbo Giant
Super Jets take pff. So huge and
awkward on the ground, it was in-
conceivable that they could ever fly.
But as they taxied down the runway
and all 18 jets fired at once; well, that
would make anyone believe in man’s
higher purpose.

When they lifted into the air a
lump would come to Calvin’s throat.
Wobbling, ungainly, spilling kerosene
from each massive jet engine, the
plane would create a dark, smeary
cloud that trailed behind it. Calvin
would watch the cloud dissipate as

LAST ROCKET FROM NEWARK

he jogged, its dark edges blurring
with the general grayness of the sky.
Soon there would be no trace of its'
passing except for a light drizzle of
kerosene droplets.

At the end of the runway, Calvin
would turn left and continue along
the short end of the field. On his
right would be the oil refineries. He
loved the massive tanks. They were,
well, so human. The pipes and cat-
w^ks that connected the tanks were
so complex that he was sure a com-
puter was necessary to sort them out.
They were all strung with lights and
at night looked hke a large city. And a
city it was, too, but a city in which no
one lived. A city whose occupants
were fluids, moving in orderly fashion
from one tank to another. Just like
the real world ought to be.

While Calvin was jogging in this
section he would have to dodge the
big thirsty tank trucks as they entered
the gates. He loved to watch them
pull up to the massive tanks and fill
themselves with the unseen fluid. It
amazed him that it was all accom-
plished with so few humans around,
almost everything was done by
machine. It was almost as if all the
humans could disappear and it would
keep on going. Somehow this thou^t
comforted Calvin and he would con-
tinue jogging until he reached the
end of the short side of the airport
where he would again turn left and
begin the nature portion of his jog.

It was here that Calvin felt particu-
larly close to the soil. On his left was
the back of the airport; a series of fea-
tureless brick buildings that, while in-
teresting at times, left his mind free
to contemplate the wonders on his
right.

For on his right lay the marshes.
Stretching out to the auto junkyard in
the distance, they brou^t out the

dormant naturalist in Calvin. The oil-
slicked water and dull brown plants
were his only contact with nature; ex-
cept, of course, for the plastic
geranium kept in his windowsill. He
loved the marsh with all its natural
wonders. He watered his geranium
every day.

Once he had stopped jogging and
explored the edge of the marsh. It
was there that he found evidence of
the harmony that exists between man
and his environment. It wasn’t ten
feet from a pile of rusty beer cans that
he found the dead frog. And the frog
was right next to some sort of an oil
soaked bird! What beauty there was
in the inter-relationships of man and
nature.

As Calvin jogged along the road
that morning he had an uneasy feeling
that something was wrong. He looked
over his shoulder and saw a non-
descript black car about 25 feet be-
hind him. It was driving at the same
slow speed that he was jogging. It
made him suspicious. He stopped and
the car stopped. He started up again,
jogged about ten paces and stopped
suddenly, turning abruptly. The car
started and stopped clumsily, its oc-
cupants trying desperately to look
nonchalant. All three people in the
car, including the driver, whipped up
newspapers and pretended they were
reading them. It didn’t fool Calvin for
a second. The papers were several
days old and one of them was holding
his upside down. Calvin began to be-
lieve he was being followed.

He walked over to the car.

“Can I help you?” he asked, jog-
ging in place.

“U.S. Government,” said one, pro-
ducing a badge.

“National Space Force,” said the
driver, folding up the newspaper.

“Far out,” said Calvin, doing deep

128

AMAZING

knee bends, his arms extended in
front of him. He resisted the impulse
to salute.

“We’ve been watching you.”

“I can tell.”

“Not just today. For a long time.”

Calvin stopped doing deep knee
bends. He started jogging in place
again.

The fat one in the back leaned out
the window.

“Son,” he said, “your country needs
you.”

Calvin stopped jogging.

“We’re going to make you an as-
tronaut.”

Calvin felt faint. An astronaut! And
he hadn’t even been sure they were
still sending up rockets.

“Yes sir,” he said. This time he did
salute.

“Get in,” said the hit one, opening
the back door. They sped away from
the marshes onto the turnpike and
inched their way into New York City.

Eventually, deep in the muggy
city, they pulled into a parking lot
next to a large chrome and glass
building. As Calvin automatically
started towards the front door, one of
the men grabbed his arm and steered
him towards a featureless converted
brownstone next door.

“Budget cuts,” was the mumbled
apology.

Inside the building a lot of busy
people stood at each other’s desks,
sharpened pencils and held up the
water cooler.

The fat man took Calvin to the
front of the room.

“I want you all to meet ...” he
gestured to Calvin with his arm, “the
first American to walk on Jupiter!”

Everyone cheered.

“What am I supposed to do?” asked
Calvin.

“Just wave. Take a bow if you

want.

Calvin waved and there was even
more applause. 'The clamor didn’t
stop until Calvin was led into a small
room.

“Jupiter?” asked Calvin.

“Yes. The big daddy of them all.
Perhaps man’s last frontier. And think
of it — you’ll be the first man there.”

“Why me? I’m not an astronaut.”

“You fit all the qualifications.
You’re between the ages of 23 and 34,
in good physical shape, an American
citizen from Newark, an IQ over 85. I
could go on, but you get the idea.
You’re our boy.”

“But I don’t even drive my car too
well. How am I going to handle all
that rocket ship and module busi-
ness?”

“No problem at all. We gave up
training astronauts a long time ago.
Too expensive. It’s much easier to
make everything automatic. ”

“I’m as patriotic as the next guy,
but isn’t this kind of dangerous?”

“It’s as safe as walking down the
street.”

Calvin pondered this a minute and
thought about walking down a New
York street. He figured the trip to
Jupiter would be safer.

“What’ll I have to do?”

“Easy as pie. After you land just
walk around and pick up rocks or
whatever is lying around on the
ground, take some pictures and get
back inside. Everything is automatic;
return blast off and everything.”

“It sounds okay. When is the mis-
sion scheduled?”

“Tomorrow. You’ll take an eight
a.m. flight down to the Cape and
then take the shuttle up to Space Sta-
tion One. You’ll leave for Jupiter from
there.”

Calvin was excused from the meet-
ing and took a cab back home, paying

LAST ROCKET FROM NEWARK

129

for it out of his own pocket. He sat at
his window and watched the sunset
turn the oil refineries burnt orange.
He loved sunsets.

The next morning he found, to his
relief, that he didn’t have to buy his
own ticket for the flight to the Cape.
He did, however, have to fly in the
sub-coach section. The 300 seat com-
partment was so filled that his break-
fast didn’t arrive until after they ar-
rived in Florida. He ate it while wait-
ing for his turn to deplane.

He was met by a tall, serious man
from the Space Force. Together they
rode the tour bus out to the Cape.

As the bus swung by the launch
pad the man said something to the
driver and they both got off.

“This is it,” said the man from the
Space Force, walking towards the van
that would take them out to the shut-
tle.

“I can understand about the train-
ing expenses, but won’t I be briefed
or anything?”

“The trip to Jupiter will take sev-
eral months. Plenty of time to learn
to walk around and pick up rocks,
wouldn’t you say? Also, there’s a
manual inside the probe. It should
tell you everything you need to know.
If you have any questions, there’s al-
ways the radio. Just give mission con-
trol a call anytime during business
hours.”

The van pulled up next to the shut-
tle and Calvin climbed aboard along
with the tourists that were the shut-
tle’s normal passengers.

Calvin was introduced as the man
who was going to Jupiter and ev-
erybody came over to shake his hand
and ask for his autograph. Lots of

people bought him drinks arid by the
time he arrived at the Space Station
he was entertaining them all with
off-color songs he had learned in the
bars of Newark.

At the station, however, things
were cold and efficient. He was
plucked from the shuttle and popped
into the probe. Before he had time
for a cup of coffee he was on his way.

The probe was small, but well
equipped. Before he passed the orbit
of Mars he had learned how to make
a passable wine from the powdered
fruit drink they provided him.

Soon Jupiter filled the view-port.
He gathered up his small instant-
loading camera and a few plastic bags
for the rocks and waited for the land-
ing.

As promised, the landing was
smooth and automatic. The gravity
bothered him a little bit, but jogging
in Newark had honed his body to a
razor’s edge.

I One thing, however, did bother
him.

“Hey mission control,” he shouted
into his radio. “Where’s my space
suit?”

He heard the mechanical rumbling
of the door’s opening mechanism.

“We couldn’t afford one,” came the
delayed answer.

“What?”

“You’re from Newark. We figured
you could breathe the atmosphere.”

The door swung open and poison-
ous gasses filled the cabin. He took a
deep breath. Just like home, he
grinned, wondering if there was a
turnpike nearby.

— Jack C. Haldeman ii

130

AMAZING

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131

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ON SALE IN FANTASTIC (Feb.)

THE PURSUIT OF THE UMBRELLA by MARVIN KAYE, A
SENSE OF DISASTER by CHRISTOPHER ANVIL, THE BIRDS
OF THE MOON by LISA TUTTLE, DAYS OF STONE by JACK
DANN, TWO SORT-OF ADVENTURES by OVA HAMLET, THE
LOSER AT SOUTAIRE by PAUL DAVID NOVITSKI, THE
WIZARD OF DEATH by PAUL HALPINE, THE HUNTER by
ROBERT ADAMS.

AMAZING

132

Yes, Harold Shea, L. Sprague de Camp and Fletcher
Pratt’s myth-hunting hero is back, returning in the third
and last volume of the incompleat enchanter series.

‘Wall of Serpents’, long unavailable since its only book
publication in 1960, concludes the series; and Phantasia
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Special boxed edition signed and numbered by Mr.
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Trade edition $12.00; Special edition $20.00.

Order direct from the publisher: Add $1.00 for postage
and handling.

L. SPRAGUE DE CAMP & FLETCHER PRATT

13101 Lincoln

Huntington Woods, Mich. 48070

MUSIC TO READ SF BY

Music guaranteed to send the imagination soar-
ing. Music to take you into the same exciting new
dimensions of time and place offered by writers
like Heinlein, Asimov, and Clarke. Including film
scores from such movies as Fahrenheit 451 , this
superb stereo recording is a $4.95 value. Now it is
available exclusively to members of The Science
Fiction Book Club at a big 40% saving — yours for
just $2.95 when you join.

How the Club works:

When your application for membership ‘is accept-
ed. you'll receive your introductory package of 4
books. (If you also want the record, check the ap-
propriate box in the coupon below.) If not com-

pletely satisfied, you may return this introductory
package in ten days’ time — membership will be
cancelled and you'll owe nothing.

About every 4 weeks (14 times a year), we’ll
send you the Club's bulletin, describing the 2 com-
ing Selections and a variety of Alternate choices.
If you want both Selections, you need do nothing:
they’ll be shipped automatically. If you don’t want
a Selection, or prefer an Alternate, or no book at
all. just fill out the convenient form always pro-
vided. and return it by the date specified. We try to
allow you at least ten days for making your deci-
sion. If you don’t get the form in time to respond
within 10 days, and receive unwanted books, you
may return them at our expense.

As a member you need take only 4 Selections or
Alternates during the coming year. You may resign
any time thereafter, or remain a member as long as
you wish. At least one of the two Selections each
month is only $1.98 plus shipping and* handling.
Other extra-value selections are slightly higher but
always much less than Publishers' Editions. Send
no money. But do send the coupon today.

AIIY4 BOOKS FOR IQC

with memhership

BONUS: Also take, if you wish, this $4.95 record
value — now available exclusively to club mem-
bers for just $2.95!

ifc.

the foundation
trilogy

□UTQFTOE

URRY NIVEN

Science Fiction Book Club

I Dept. SR187, Garden City, N.Y. 11530

I * Please accept my application for membership in the
Science Fiction Book Club.

I Send me. as a beginning, the 4 books whose numbers I
I have indicated below, and bill me just 10e (plus shipping
I and handling). I agree to purchase 4 additional books at

( regular low club prices during the coming year and may
resign anytime thereafter, I agree to the Club Plan as de-
scribed in this advertisement. SFC books are selections

I for mature readers.

n Send me. in addition. GREAT SCIENCE FICTION FILM
I MUSIC and bill me just $2.95 plus shipping and handling.

Miss

Please pnnt

1 Address

City

If under 18 parent

I signature.

must sign. Order

not valid without

- ■ - -- _

6532 The Hugo Winners.
Vol. I & II. Giant 2-in-1
volume of 23 award-win-
ning stories. 1955 to 1970
Asimov introduces each
Pub ed. $15 45

6221 The Foundation
Trilogy. By Isaac Asimov
The ends of the galaxy
revert to barbarism An
SF classic Comb Price
$19 85

5041 Star Wars: From
the Adventures of Luke
Skywalker By George
Lucas Life on a backwater
planet can be dull, unless
you become involved in an
interstellar rebellion
Photos from the motion
picture Special ed

6403 The Star Trek
Reader III. Adapted by
James Blish 19 more
outstanding and exciting
adventures of the Starship
Enterprise and its gallant
crew Pub ed $8 95

0141 Time Storm. By
Gordon R. Dickson A ma-
lor novel from one of SF's
best writers. Gripping ad-
venture and fascinating
ideas set in a vast scope
of time and space Pub
ed $10 00.

6320 A World Out of
Time. By Larry Niven A
black hole in space sends
Jerome Corbeil 3 million
years into Earth's future
where the ultimate battle
of the sexes is raging. By
co-author of The Mote in
God's Eye Pub ed. $7 95

6060 All My Sins
Remembered. By Joe
Haideman A young man
in search of excitement is
se^t to the danger spots
of the galaxy By the au-
ihor ot Mindbridge. Pub
ed 57 95

2295 The Sword ot
Shannara. By Terry
Brooks A massive quest
novel in the very best
Tolkien tradition Illustrated
by the Brothers Hildebrandt
Pub ed $12 95

4739 Gateway. By
Frederik Pohi Travel on
alien ships to distant parts
of the universe— with no
guarantee of return. By the
author of Man Plus. Pub
ed $8 95

7625 The 1977 Annual
World's Best SF. Donald A
Woilheim. ed The best SF
published during 1976 by
Asimov. Knight. Varley and
others Includes Tipiree's
Houston. Houston. Do You
Read? Special ed

6106 The Adventures ol
the Stainless Steel Rat. By
Harry Harrison 3 thrilling
books in 1 exciting volume
take us throughout the gal-
axy Comb, ed $15 85

0109 Silence is Deadly.
By Lloyd Biggie. Jr Spying
on a new secret weapon
proves difficult tor Jan
Oarzek as he travels to
a totally deaf world
Pub ed $6 95

The Science Fiction Book Club offers its own complete hardbound editions
sometimes altered in size to fit special presses and save members even
more Members accepted in U.S.A. and Canada only. Canadian members
will be serviced from Toronto. Offer slightly different in Canada.

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